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A STORY OF DOOM 



AND OTHER POEMS. 




£/U^. 



/ 



STORY OF DOOM 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 






JEAN INGELOW 




BOSTON 
ROBERTS BROTHERS 

1867 



TRY-*'? 



author's edition. 



University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 

Cambridge. 




CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Dreams that came true i 

Songs on the Voices of Birds. 

Introduction. — Child and Boatman ... 23 

The Nightingale heard by the Unsatisfied Heart 25 

Sand Martins '. 26 

A Poet in his Youth and the Cuckoo-Bird . 29 

A Raven in a White Chine 36 

The Warbling of Blackbirds .... 38 

Sea-Mews in Winter-Time 39 

Laurance 42 

Songs of the Night Watches. 

Introductory. — Evening ...... St, 

The First Watch. — Tired 84 

The Middle Watch 9 1 

The Morning Watch 96 

Concluding. — Early Dawn 9S 

A Story of Doom 100 



vi CONTENTS. 

Contrasted Songs. 

Sailing beyond Seas 201 

Remonstrance . . 203 

Song for the Night of Christ's Resurrection . 204 

Song of Margaret 211 

Song of the going away 212 

A Lily and a Lute 214 

Gladys and her Island 225 

Songs with Preludes. 

Wedlock 259 

Regret 263 

Lamentation 265 

Dominion 268 

Friendship 271 

WlNSTANLEY 275 

Notes 289 




POEMS. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME . TRUE. 



m% 



SAW in a vision once, our mother-sphere 
The world, her fixed foredoomed oval tracing, 



jjggjgggl Rolling and rolling on and resting never, 
While like a phantom fell, behind her pacing 
The unfurled flag of night, her shadow drear 
Fled as she fled and hung to her forever. 

Great Heaven ! methought, how strange a doom to share. 

Would I may never bear 

Inevitable darkness after me 
(Darkness endowed with drawings strong, 

And shadowy hands that cling unendingly), 

Nor feel that phantom-wings behind me sweep, 
As she feels night pursuing through the long 

Illimitable reaches of " the vasty deep." 



God save you, gentlefolks. There was a man 
Who lay awake at midnight on his bed, 

1 A 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Watching the spiral flame that feeding ran 

Among the logs upon his hearth, and shed 
A comfortable glow, both warm and dim, 
On crimson curtains that encompassed him. 

Eight stately was his chamber, soft and white 
The pillow, and his quilt was eider-down. 

What mattered it to him though all that night 

The desolate driving cloud might lower and frown, 

And winds were up the eddying sleet to chase, 

That drave and drave and found no settling-place ? 

What mattered it that leafless trees might rock, 
Or snow might drift athwart his window-pane ? 

He bare a charmed life against their shock, 
Secure from cold, hunger, and weather stain ; 

Fixed in his right, and born to good estate, 

From common ills set by and separate. 

From work and want and fear of want apart, 

This man (men called him Justice Wilvermore), — 

This man had comforted his cheerful heart 
With all that it desired from every shore. 

He had a right, — the right of gold is strong, — 

He stood upon his right his whole life long. 

Custom makes all things easy, and content 

Is careless, therefore on the storm and cold, 
As he lay waking, never a thought he spent, 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 3 

Albeit across the vale beneath the wold, 
Along a reedy mere that frozen lay, 
A range of sordid hovels stretched away. 

What cause had he to think on them, forsooth ? 

What cause that night beyond another night ? 
He was familiar even from his youth 

With their long ruin and their evil plight. 
The wintry wind would search them like a scout, 
The water froze within as freely as without. 

He think upon them ? No ! They were forlorn, 
So were the cowering inmates whom they held ; 

A thriftless tribe, to shifts and leanness born, 
Ever complaining : infancy or eld 

Alike. But there was rent, or long ago 

Those cottage roofs had met with overthrow. 

For this they stood ; and what his thoughts mig 1 i be 
That winter night, I know not ; but I know 

That, while the creeping flame fed silently 
And cast upon his bed a crimson glow, 

The Justice slept, and shortly in his sleep 

He fell to dreaming, and his dream was deep. 

He dreamed that over him a shadow came ; 

And when he looked to find the cause, behold 
Some person knelt between him and the flame : — 

A cowering figure of one frail and old, — 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

A woman ; and she prayed as he descried, 

And spread her feeble hands, and shook and sighed. 

" Good Heaven ! " the Justice cried, and being dis- 
traught 

He called not to her, but he looked again : 
She wore a tattered cloak, but she had naught 

Upon her head ; and she did quake amain, 
And spread her wasted hands and poor attire 
To gather in the brightness of his fire. 

" I know you, woman ! " then the Justice cried ; 

" I know that woman well," he cried aloud ; 
" The shepherd Aveland's widow : God me guide ! 

A pauper kneeling on my hearth " : and bowed 
The hag, like one at home, its warmth to share ! 
" How dares she to intrude ? What does she here ? 

" Ho, woman, ho ! " — but yet she did not stir, 
Though from her lips a fitful plaining broke ; 

" I '11 ring my people up to deal with her ; 

I '11 rouse the house," he cried ; but while he spoke 

He turned, and saw, but distant from his bed, 

Another form, — a Darkness with a head. 

Then in a rage, he shouted, " Who are you ? " 
For little in the gloom he might discern. 

" Speak out ; speak now ; or I will make you rue 
The hour ! " but there was silence, and a stern, 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 5 

Dark face from out the dusk appeared to lean, 
And then again drew back, and was not seen. 

" God ! " cried the dreaming man, right impiously, 
" What have I done, that these my sleep affray ? " 

" God ! " said the Phantom, " I appeal to Thee, 
Appoint Thou me this man to be my prey." 

" God ! " sighed the kneeling woman, frail and old, 

" I pray Thee take me, for the world is cold." 

Then said the trembling Justice, in affright, 

"Fiend, I adjure thee, speak thine errand here \" 

And lo ! it pointed in the failing light 

Toward the woman, answering, cold and clear, 

" Thou art ordained an answer to thy prayer ; 

But first to tell her tale that kneeleth there." 

" Her tale ! " the Justice cried. " A pauper's tale ! " 
And he took heart at this so low behest, 

And let the stoutness of his will prevail, 

Demanding, " Is 't for her you break my rest ? 

She went to jail of late for stealing wood, 

She will again for this night's hardihood. 

" I sent her ; and to-morrow, as I live, 
I will commit her for this trespass here." 

" Thou wilt not ! " quoth the Shadow, " thou wilt give 
Her story words " ; and then it stalked anear 

And showed a lowering face, and, dread to see, 

A countenance of angered majesty. 



I THE DREAMS THAT c A >)//>: T1UJK 

Then said the Justice, all his thoughts astray, 
With that materia] Darkness chiding him, 
" If this must be, then speak to her, I pray, 

And bid her move, for all the room is dim 

]>y reason of the place she holds to-night : 

She kneels between me and the warmth and light." 

" With adjurations deep and drawings strong, 
And with the power," it said, " unto me given, 

I call upon thee, man, to tell thy wrong, 
Or look no more upon the lace of Heaven. 

Speak ! though she kneel throughout the livelong night, 

And yet shall kneel between thee and the light." 

This when the Justice beard, he raised his bands, 

And held them as the dead in clligy 
Hold theirs, when carved upon a tomb. The bands 

Of fate had bound him fast: no remedy 
Was left: his voice unto himself was strange, 
And that unearthly vision did not change. 

He said, " That woman dwells anear my door, 
Her life and mine began the selfsame day, 

And I am bale and hearty : from my store 
1 never spared her aught : she takes her way 

Of me unheeded; pining, pinching care 

is all the portion that she has to share. 

" She is a broken-down, poor, friendless wight, 
Through labor and through sorrow early old ; 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. j 

And I have known of this her evil plight, 

Her scanty earnings, and her lodgment cold ; 
A patienter poor soul shall ne'er be found : 
She labored on my land the long year round. 

" "What wouldst thou have me say, thou fiend abhorred ? 

Show me no more thine awful visage grim. 
If thou obey'st a greater, tell thy lord 

That I have paid her wages. Cry to him ! 
He has not much against me. None can say 
I have not paid her wages day by day. 

" The spell ! It draws me. I must speak again ; 

And speak against myself ; and speak aloud. 
The woman once approached me to complain, — 

1 My wages are so low.' I may be proud ; 
It is a fault." " Ay," quoth the Phantom fell, 
" Sinner ! it is a fault : thou sayest well." 

" She made her moan, ' My wages are so low.' " 

" Tell on ! " " She said," he answered, " < My best 
days 

Are ended, and the summer is but slow 

To come ; and my good strength for work decays 

By reason that I live so hard, and lie 

On winter nights so bare for poverty.' " 

" And you replied," — began the lowering shade, 
" And I replied," the Justice followed on, 



8 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

" That wages like to mine my neighbor paid ; 

And if I raised the wages of the one 
Straight should the others murmur ; furthermore, 
The winter was as winters gone before. 

" No colder and not longer." " Afterward ? " — 
The Phantom questioned. " Afterward/' he groaned, 

" She said my neighbor was a right good lord, 
Never a roof was broken that he owned ; 

He gave much coal and clothing. < Doth he so ? 

"Work for my neighbor, then,' I answered. ' Go ! 

" 6 You are full welcome.' Then she mumbled out 
She hoped I was not angry ; hoped, forsooth, 

I would forgive her : and I turned about, 
And said I should be angry in good truth 

If this should be again, or ever more 

She dared to stop me thus at the church door." 

" Then ? " quoth the Shade ; and he, constrained, said on, 
" Then she, reproved, curtseyed herself away." 

" Hast met her since ? " it made demand anon ; 
And after pause the Justice answered, " Ay ; 

Some wood was stolen ; my people made a stir : 

She was accused, and I did sentence her." 

But yet, and yet, the dreaded questions came : 

" And didst thou weigh the matter, — taking thought 
Upon her sober life and honest fame ? " 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. *g 

" I gave it," he replied, with gaze distraught ; 
" I gave it, Fiend, the usual care ; I took 
The usual pains ; I could not nearer look, m 

" Because, — because their pilfering had got head. 

What wouldst thou more ? The neighbors pleaded hard, 
'T is true, and many tears the creature shed ; 

But I had vowed their prayers to disregard, 
Heavily strike the first that robbed my land, 
And put down thieving with a steady hand. 

" She said she was not guilty. Ay, 't is true 

She said so, but the poor are liars all. 
O thou fell Fiend, what wilt thou ? Must I view 

Thy darkness yet, and must thy shadow fall 
Upon me miserable ? I have done 
No worse, no more than many a scathless one." 

"Yet," quoth the Shade, "if ever to thine ears 
The knowledge of her blamelessness was brought, 

Or others have confessed with dying tears 

The crime she suffered for, and thou hast wrought 

All reparation in thy power, and told 

Into her empty hand thy brightest gold : — 

" If thou hast honored her, and hast proclaimed 

Her innocence and thy deplored wrong, 
Still thou art nought ; for thou shalt yet be blamed 

In that she, feeble, came before thee strong, 



10 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

And thou, in cruel haste to deal a blow, 

Because thou hadst been angered, worked her woe. 

" But didst thou right her ? Speak ! " The Justice sighed, 
And beaded drops stood out upon his brow ; 

" How could I humble me," forlorn he cried, 
" To a base beggar ? Nay, I will avow 

That I did ill. I will reveal the whole ; 

I kept that knowledge in my secret soul." 

" Hear him ! " the Phantom muttered ; " hear this man, 
O changeless God upon the judgment throne." 

"With that, cold tremors through his pulses ran, 
And lamentably he did make his moan ; 

While, with its arms upraised above his head, 

The dim dread visitor approached his bed. 

" Into these doors," it said, " which thou hast closed, 
Daily this woman shall from henceforth come ; 

Her kneeling form shall yet be interposed 

Till all thy wretched hours have told their sum ; 

Shall yet be interposed by day, by night, 

Between thee, sinner, and the warmth and light. 

" Remembrance of her want shall make thy meal 
Like ashes, and thy wrong thou shalt not right. 

But what ! Nay, verily, nor wealth nor weal 
From henceforth shall afford thy soul delight. 

Till men shall lay thy head beneath the sod, 

There shall be no deliverance, saith my God." 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. Ir 

" Tell me thy name" the dreaming Justice cried ; 

" By what appointment dost thou doom me thus ? " 
" 'T is well that thou shouldst know me," it replied, 

" For mine thou art, and nought shall sever us ; 
From thine own lips and life I draw my force : 
The name thy nation give me is Re:\iorse." 

This when he heard, the dreaming man cried out, 
And woke affrighted ; and a crimson glow 

The dying ember shed. Within, without, 
In eddying rings the silence seemed to flow ; 

The wind had lulled, and on his forehead shone 

The last low gleam ; he was indeed alone. 

" 0, I have had a fearful dream," said he ; 

" I will take warning and for mercy trust ; 
The fiend Remorse shall never dwell with me : 

I will repair that wrong, I will be just, 
I will be kind, I will my ways amend." 
Now the first dream is told unto its end. 

Anigh the frozen mere a cottage stood, 

A piercing wind swept round and shook the door, 

The shrunken door, and easy way made good, 
And drave long drifts of snow along the floor. 

It sparkled there like diamonds, for the moon 

Was shining in, and night was at the noon. 

Before her dying embers, bent and pale, 
A woman sat because her bed was cold ; 



I2 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

She heard the wind, the driving sleet and hail, 

And she was hunger-bitten, weak and old ; 
Yet while she cowered, and while the casement shook, 
Upon her trembling knees she held a book, — 

A comfortable book for them that mourn, 
And good to raise the courage of the poor ; 

It lifts the veil and shows, beyond the bourne, 
Their Elder Brother, from His home secure, 

That for them desolate He died to win, 

Repeating, " Come, ye blessed, enter in." 

What thought she on, this woman ? on her days 
Of toil, or on the supperless night forlorn ? 

I think not so ; the heart but seldom weighs 
With conscious care a burden always borne ; 

And she was used to these things, had grown old 

In fellowship with toil, hunger, and cold. 

Then did she think how sad it was to live 
Of all the good this world can yield bereft ? 

No, her untutored thoughts she did not give 
To such a theme ; but in their warp and weft 

She wove a prayer : then in the midnight deep 

Faintly and slow she fell away to sleep. 

A strange, a marvellous sleep, which brought a dream, 

And it was this : that all at once she heard 
The pleasant babbling of a little stream 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

That ran beside her door, and then a bird 
Broke out in songs. She looked, and lo ! the rime 
And snow had melted ; it was summer time ! 

And all the cold was over, and the mere 

Full sweetly swayed the flags and rushes green ; 

The mellow sunlight poured right warm and clear 
Into her casement, and thereby were seen 

Fair honeysuckle flowers, and wandering bees 

Were hovering round the blossom-laden trees. 

She said, " I will betake me to my door, 

And will look out and see this wondrous sight, 

How summer is come back, and frost is o'er, 
And all the air warm waxen in a night." 

With that she opened, but for fear she cried, 

For lo ! two Angels, — one on either side. 

And while she looked, with marvelling measureless, 
The Angels stood conversing face to face, 

But neither spoke to her. " The wilderness," | 
One Angel said, " the solitary place, 

Shall yet be glad for Him." And then full fain 

The other Angel answered, " He shall reign " 

And when the woman heard, in wondering wise, 
She whispered, " They are speaking of my Lord." 

And straightway swept across the open skies 
Multitudes like to these. They took the word, 



13 



14 



TEE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 



That flock of Angels, " He shall come again, 

My Lord, ray Lord ! " they sang, " and He shall reign ! " 

Then they, drawn up into the blue o'er-head, 
Right happy, shining ones, made haste to flee ; 

And those before her one to other said, 

" Behold He stands aneath yon almond-tree." 

This when the woman heard, she fain had gazed, 

But paused for reverence, and bowed down amazed. 

After she looked, for this her dream was deep ; 

She looked, and there was nought beneath the tree ; 
Yet did her love and longing overleap 

The fear of Angels, awful though they be, 
And she passed out between the blessed things, 
And brushed her mortal weeds against their wings. 

O, all the happy world was in its best, 

The trees were covered thick with buds and flowers, 
And these were dropping honey ; for the rest, 

Sweetly the birds were piping in their bowers ; 
Across the grass did groups of Angels go, 
And Saints in pairs were walking to and fro. 

Then did she pass toward the almond-tree, 
And none she saw beneath it : yet each Saint 

Upon his coming meekly bent the knee, 

And all their glory as they gazed waxed faint. 

And then a 'lighting Angel neared the place, 

And folded his fair wings before his face. 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

She also knelt, and spread her aged hands 
As feeling for the sacred human feet; 

She said, " Mine eyes are held, but if He stands 
Anear, I will not let Him hence retreat 

Except He bless me." Then, sweet ! O fair ! 

Some words were spoken, but she knew not where. 

She knew not if beneath the boughs they woke. 
Or dropt upon her from the realms above ; 

" What wilt thou, woman ? " in the dream He spoke, 
" Thy sorrow moveth Me, thyself I love ; 

Long have I counted up thy mournful years,^ 

Once I did weep to wipe away thy tears." 

She said : a My one Redeemer, only blest, 

I know Thy voice, and from my yearning heart 

Draw out my deep desire, my great request, 
My prayer, that I might enter where Thou art. 

Call me, O call from this world troublesome, 

And let me see Thy face." He answered, " Come." 

Here is the ending of the second dream. 

It is a frosty morning, keen and cold, 
Fast locked are silent mere and frozen stream, 

And snow lies sparkling on the desert wold ; 
With savory morning meats they spread the board, 
But Justice Wilvermore will walk abroad. 

" Bring me my cloak," quoth he, as one in haste. 
" Before you breakfast, sir ? " his man replies. 



15 



1 6 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

"Ay," quoth be quickly, and he will not taste 

Of aught before him, but in urgent wise 
As he would fain some carking care allay, 
Across the frozen field he takes his way. 

"A dream ! how strange that it should move me so, 
'T was but a dream," quoth Justice Wilvermore : 

" And yet I cannot peace nor pleasure know, 
For wrongs I have not heeded heretofore ; 

Silver and gear the crone shall have of me, 

And dwell for life in yonder cottage free. 

« For visions of the night are fearful things, 
Remorse is dread, though merely in a dream ; 

I will not subject me to visitings 

Of such a sort again. I will esteem 

My peace above my pride. From natures rude 

A little gold will buy me gratitude. 

" The woman shall have leave to gather wood, 
As much as she may need, the long year round ; 

She shall, I say, — moreover, it were good 
Yon other cottage roofs to render sound. 

Thus to my soul the ancient peace restore, 

And sleep at ease," quoth Justice Wilvermore. 

With that he nears the door : a frosty rime 
Is branching over it, and drifts are deep 
Against the wall. He knocks, and there is time, — 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. l7 

(For none doth open), — time to list the sweep 
And whistle of the wind along the mere 
Through beds of stiffened reeds and rushes sere. 



" If she be out, I have my pains for nought/' 
He saith, and knocks again, and yet once more, 

But to his ear nor step nor stir is brought ; 
And after pause, he doth unlatch the door 

And enter. No : she is not out, for see 

She sits asleep 'mid frost-work winterly. 

Asleep, asleep before her empty grate, 

Asleep, asleep, albeit the landlord call. 
"What, dame," he saith, and comes toward her 
straight, 

" Asleep so early ! " But whate'er befall, 
She sleepeth ; then he nears her, and behold 
He lays a hand on hers, and it is cold. 

Then doth the Justice to his home return ; 

From that day forth he wears a sadder brow ; 
His hands are opened, and his heart doth learn 

The patience of the poor. He made a vow 
And keeps it, for the old and sick have shared 
His gifts, their sordid homes he hath repaired. 

And some he hath made happy, but for him 

Is happiness no more. He doth repent, 
And now the light of joy is waxen dim, 



1 8 THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. 

Are all his steps toward the Highest sent ; 
He looks for mercy, and he waits release 
Above, for this world doth not yield him peace. 

Night after night, night after desolate night, 
Day after day, day after tedious day, 

Stands by his fire, and dulls its gleamy light, 
Paceth behind or meets him in the way ; 

Or shares the path by hedgerow, mere, or stream, 

The visitor that doomed him in his dream. 



Thy kingdom come. 
I heard a Seer cry, — " The wilderness, 

The solitary place, 
Shall yet be glad for Him, and He shall bless 
(Thy kingdom come) with his revealed face 
The forests ; they shall drop their precious gum, 
And shed for Him their balm : and He shall yield 
The grandeur of His speech to charm the field. 

" Then all the soothed winds shall drop to listen, 

(Thy kingdom come,) 
Comforted waters waxen calm shall glisten 
With bashful tremble men t beneath His smile : 

And Echo ever the while 
Shall take, and in her awful joy repeat, 
The laughter of His lips — (thy kingdom come) : 
And hills that sit apart shall be no longer dumb ; 



THE DREAMS THAT CAME TRUE. ig 

No, they shall shout and shout, 
Kaining their lovely loyalty along the dewy plain : 
And valleys round about, 

" And all the well-contented land, made sweet 

With flowers she opened at His feet, 
Shall answer ; shout and make the welkin ring 
And tell it to the stars, shout, shout, and sing ; 

Her cup being full to the brim, 

Her poverty made rich with Him, 
Her yearning satisfied to its utmost sum, — 
Lift up thy voice, O earth, prepare thy song, 

It shall not yet be long, 
Lift up, O earth, for He shall come again, 
Thy Lord ; and He shall reign, and He shall reign, — 

Thy kingdom come." 



SONGS 



ON 



THE VOICES OF BIRDS, 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



INTRODUCTION. 



CHILD AND BOATMAN. 



£gi|5§^ARTIN, I wonder who makes all the songs." 
"You do, sir?" 

" Yes, I wonder how the y come." 
" "Well, boy, I wonder what you '11 wonder next ! " 
" But somebody must make them ? " 

" Sure enough." 
" Does your wife know ? " 

" She never said she did." 
" You told me that she knew so many things." 
" I said she was a London woman, sir, 
And a fine scholar, but I never said 
She knew about the songs." 

" I wish she did." 
" And I wish no such thing ; she knows enough, 
She knows too much already. Look you now, 
This vessel 's off the stocks, a tidy craft." 
" A schooner, Martin ? " 

" No, boy, no ; a brig, 
Only she 's schooner rigged, — a lovely craft." 



24 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" Is she for me ? 0, thank you, Martin, dear. 
What shall I call her ? " 

" Well, sir, what you please." 
" Then write on her < The Eagle.' " 

" Bless the child ! 
Eagle ! why, you know naught of eagles, you. 
When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, 
And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, 
That was the place for eagles ; bald they were, 
With eyes as yellow as gold." 

" O, Martin, dear, 
Tell me about them." 

" Tell ! there 's nought to tell, 
Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." 
"Snored?" 

" Ay, I tell you, snored ; they slept upright 
In the great oaks by scores ; as true as time, 
If I 'd had aught upon my mind just then, 
I would n't have walked that wood for unknown gold ; 
It was most awful. When the moon was full, 
I 've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch, 
When she got low. I 've seen them plunge like stones, 
And come up fighting with a fish as long, 
Ay, longer than my arm ; and they would sail, — 
When they had struck its life out, — they would sail 
Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, 
And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed 
Grand as a frigate on a wind." 

« My ship, 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 2 $ 

She must be called ' The Eagle ' after these. 
And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs 
"When you go in at dinner-time." 

"Not I." 



THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE 
UNSATISFIED HEART 

WHEN in a May-day hush 
Chanteth the Missel-thrush 
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous 
stirs ; 
When Robin-redbreast sings, 
We think on budding springs, 
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers. 

But thou in the trance of light 

Stayest the feeding night, 
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise, 

And casts at our glad feet, 

In a wisp of fancies fleet, 
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies. 

Her central thought full well 
Thou hast the wit to tell, 
To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so ; 



26 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

The moral of moonlight 
To set in a cadence bright, 
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did 
know. 

I have no nest as thou, 

Bird on the blossoming bough, 
Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul, 

Chanting, " forego thy strife, 

The spirit out-acts the life, 
But much is seldom theirs who can perceive the whole. 

" Thou drawest a perfect lot 

All thine, but hold en not, 
Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide ; 

There might be sorer smart 

Than thine, far-seeing heart, 
Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied." 



SAND MARTINS. 

PASSED an inland-cliff precipitate; 
From tiny caves peeped many a sooty poll ; 
In each a mother-martin sat elate, 

And of the news delivered her small soul. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 2 / 

Fantastic chatter ! hasty, glad, and gay, 
Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell : 

" Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day ? " 
" Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well." 

And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones 
"Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made 

Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns, 
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed ; — 

And visions of the sky as of a cup 

Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand, 

And quivering air-waves trembling up and up, 
And blank stone faces marvellously bland. 

" When should the young be fledged and with them hie 
Where costly day drops down in crimson light ? 

(Fortunate countries of the firefly 

Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night, 

" And the immortal moon takes turn with them.) 
When should they pass again by that red land, 

Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem 
To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand ? 

" When should they dip their breasts again and play 
In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air. 

Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day. 
Stalking; amid the lotus blossom fair ? 



2 8 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight, 
While cassias blossom in the zone of calms, 

And so betake them to a south sea-bight, 
To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms 

" Whose roots are in the spray. 0, haply there 

Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find 

A frigate standing in to make more fair 
The loneliness unaltered of mankind. 

" A frigate come to water : nuts would fall, 

And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed 
strand, 

While northern talk would ring, and there withal 
The martins would desire the cool north land. 

" And all would be as it had been before ; 

Again at eve there would be news to tell ; 
Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er, 

' Gossip, how wags the world ? ' i Well, gossip, 
well.' " 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS, 2 g 



A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE 
CUCKOO-BIBD. 

ONCE upon a time, I lay 
Fast asleep at dawn of day ; 
Windows open to the south, 
Fancy pouting her sweet mouth 
To my ear. 

She turned a globe 
In her slender hand, her robe 
Was all spangled ; and she said, 
As she sat at my bed's head, 
" Poet, poet, what, asleep ! 
Look ! the ray runs up the steep 
To your roof." Then in the golden 
Essence of romances olden, 
Bathed she my entranced heart. 
And she gave a hand to me, 
Drew me onward, " Come ! " said she ; 
And she moved with me apart, 
Down the lovely vale of Leisure. 

Such its name was, I heard say, 
For some Fairies trooped that way ; 
Common people of the place, 
Taking their accustomed pleasure, 
(All the clocks being stopped) to race 



30 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

Down the slope on palfreys fleet. 
Bridle bells made tinkling sweet ; 
And they said, " What signified 
Faring home till eventide : 
There were pies on every shelf, 
And the bread would bake itself." 
But for that I cared not, fed, 
As it were, with angels' bread, 
Sweet as honey ; yet next day 
All foredoomed to melt away ; 
Gone before the sun waxed hot, 
Melted manna that was not 

Sock-doves' poetry of plaint, 
Or the starling's courtship quaint ; 
Heart made much of, 't was a boon 
Won from silence, and too soon 
Wasted in the ample air : 
Building rooks far distant were. 
Scarce at all would speak the rills, 
And I saw the idle hills, 
In their amber hazes deep, 
Fold themselves arid go to sleep, 
Though it was not yet high noon. 

Silence ? Rather music brought 
From the spheres ! As if a thought, 
Having taken wings, did fly 
Through the reaches of the sky. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 3I 

Silence ? No, a sumptuous sigh 
That had found embodiment, 
That had come across the deep 
After months of wintry sleep, 
And with tender heavings went 
Floating up the firmament. 

" O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, 
" 'T is the voice of my regret, — 
Mine ! " and I awoke. Full sweet 
Saffron sunbeams did me greet ; 
And the voice it spake again, 
Dropped from yon blue cup of light 
Or some cloudlet swan's-down white 
On my soul, that drank full fain 
The sharp joy — the sweet pain — 
Of its clear, right innocent, 
Unreproved discontent. 

How it came — where it went — 
"Who can tell ? The open blue 
Quivered with it, and I, too, 
Trembled. I remembered me 
Of the springs that used to be, 
When a dimpled white-haired child, 
Shy and tender and half wild, 
In the meadows I had heard 
Some way off the talking bird, 
And had felt it marvellous sweet, 



32 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

For it laughed : it did me greet, 
Calling me : yet, hid away 
In the woods, it would not play. 
No. 

And all the world about. 
While a man will work or sing, - 
Or a child pluck flowers of spring, 
Thou wilt scatter music out, 
Rouse him with thy wandering note, 
Changeful fancies set afloat, 
Almost tell with thy clear throat, 
But not quite, — the wonder-rife, 
Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, 
That he searcheth all his life, 
Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth ; 
And so winnowing of thy wings, 
Touch and trouble his heart's strings, 
That a certain music soundeth 
In that wondrous instrument, 
With a trembling upward sent, 
That is reckoned sweet above 
By the Greatness surnamed Love. 

" 0, 1 hear thee in the blue ; 
Would that I might wing it too ! 
O to have what hope hath seen ! 
O to be what might have been ! 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" to set my life, sweet bird, 
To a tune that oft I heard 
When I used to stand alone 
Listening to the lovely moan 
Of the swaying pines o'erhead, 
While, a-gathering of bee-bread 
For their living, murmured round, 
As the pollen dropped to ground, 
All the nations from the hives ; 
And the little brooding wives 
On each nest, brown dusky things, 
Sat with gold-dust on their wings. 
Then beyond (more sweet than all) 
Talked the tumbling waterfall ; 
And there were, and there were not 
(As might fall, and form anew 
Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) 
Echoes of — I know not what ; 
As if some right-joyous elf, 
While about his own affairs, 
Whistled softly otherwheres. 
Nay, as if our mother dear, 
Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere, 
Laughed a little to herself, 
Laughed a little as she rolled, 
Thinking on the days of old. 

" Ah ! there be some hearts, I wis, 
To which nothing comes amiss. 

3 



33 



34 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

Mine was one. Much secret wealth 
I was heir to : and by stealth, 
When the moon was fully grown, 
And she thought herself alone, 
I have heard her, ay, right well, 
Shoot a silver message down 
To the unseen sentinel 
Of a still, snow-thatched town. 

" Once, awhile ago, I peered 
In the nest where Spring was reared. 
There, she quivering her fair wings, 
Flattered March with chirrupings ; 
And they fed her ; nights and days, 
Fed her mouth with much sweet food, 
And her heart with love and praise, 
Till the wild thing rose and flew 
Over woods and w r ater-springs, 
Shaking off the morning dew 
In a rainbow from her wings. 

" Once (I will to you confide 
More), once in forest wide, 
I, benighted, overheard 
Marvellous mild echoes stirred, 
And a calling half defined, 
And an answering from afar ; 
Somewhat talked with a star, 
And the talk was of mankind. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 35 

" ' Cuckoo, cuckoo ! ' 
Float anear in upper blue : 
Art thou yet a prophet true ? 
Wilt thou say, ' And having seen 
Things that be, and have not been, 
Thou art free o' the world, for naught 
Can despoil thee of thy thought ' ? 
Nay, but make me music yet, 
Bird, as deep as my regret, 
For a certain hope hath set, 
Like a star ; and left me heir 
To a crying for its light, 
An aspiring infinite, 
And a beautiful despair ! 

" Ah ! no more, no more, no more" 
I shall lie at thy shut door, 
Mine ideal, my desired, 
Dreaming thou wilt open it, 
And step out, thou most admired, 
By my side to fare, or sit, 
Quenching hunger and all drouth 
With the wit of thy fair mouth, 
Showing me the wished prize 
In the calm of thy dove's eyes, 
Teaching me the wonder-rife 
Majesties of human life, 
All its fairest possible sum, 
And the grace of its to come. 



36 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" What a difference ! Why of late 

All sweet music used to say, 

~ l She will come, and with thee stay 

To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' 

Now it murmurs, 6 Wait, wait, wait ! ' " 



A BAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE. 

I SAW when I looked up, on either hand, 
A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white ; 
A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land, — 
Toward the sea, an open yawning bight. 

The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue, 
Washed in the bight ; above with angry moan 

A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view, 
Croaking and crying on a ledge alone. 

" Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings, 
With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood, 

For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things, 
Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food. 

" Cry, thou black prophetess ! cry, and despair, 
None love thee, none ! Their father was thy foe, 

Whose father in his youth did know thy lair, 
And steal thy little demons long ago. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 37 

" Thou madest many childless for their sake, 
And picked out many eyes that loved the light. 

Cry, thou black prophetess ! sit up, awake, 
Forebode; and ban them through the desolate night." 

Lo ! while I spake it, with a crimson hue 
The dipping sun endowed that silver flood, 

And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew, 
The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood. 

" Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine, 
Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate. 

It is not blood : thy gods are making wine, 
They spilt the must outside their city gate, 

" And stained their azure pavement with the lees : 
They will not listen though thou cry aloud. 

Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease, 
Nor hears ; the fair hag, Luck, is in her shroud. 

" They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign : 
Thou hast no charm against the favorite race ; 

Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine : 
There is no justice in their dwelling-place ! 

" Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest, 
Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie ; 

Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest : 
Cry, thou black prophetess ! lift up ! cry, cry ! * 



3 8 SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS. 

WHEN I hear the waters fretting, 
When I see the chestnut letting 
All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, " Alas the 
day!" 
Once with magical sweet singing, 
Blackbirds set the woodland ringing, 
That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves 
away. 

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling, 
Sweet as air, and all beguiling ; 
And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down 
the dell ; 
And we talked of joy and splendor 
That the years unborn would render, 
And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew 
it well. 

Piping, fluting, " Bees are humming, 

April 's here, and summer 's coming ; 
Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride 
and joy ; 

Think on us in alleys shady, 

When you step a graceful lady ; 
For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and boy. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 



39 



" Laugh and play, lisping waters, 
Lull our downy sons and daughters ; 
Come, wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wander- 
ings coy ; 
When they wake we '11 end the measure 
With a wild sweet cry of pleasure, 
And a ' Hey down derry, let 's be merry ! little girl and 
boy!'" 



SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME. 

I WALKED beside a dark gray sea, 
And said, " O world, how cold thou art ! 
Thou poor white world, I pity thee, 
For joy and warmth from thee depart. 

" Yon rising wave licks off the snow, 
Winds on the crag each other chase, 

In little powdery whirls they blow 
The misty fragments down its face. 

" The sea is cold, and dark its rim, 
Winter sits cowering on the wold, 

And I beside this watery brim, 
Am also lonely, also cold." 



4 o SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

I spoke, and drew toward a rock, 

Where many mews made twittering sweet ; 

Their wings upreared, the clustering flock 
Did pat the sea-grass with their feet. 

A rock but half submerged, the sea 
Ran up and washed it while they fed ; 

Their fond and foolish ecstasy 
A wondering in my fancy bred. 

Joy companied with every cry, 

Joy in their food, in that keen wind, 

That heaving sea, that shaded sky, 
And in themselves, and in their kind. 

The phantoms of the deep at play ! 

What idless graced the twittering things ; 
Luxurious paddlings in the spray, 

And delicate lifting up of wings. 

Then all at once a flight, and fast 
The lovely crowd flew out to sea ; 

If mine own life had been recast, 

Earth had not looked more changed to me. 

" Where is the cold ? Yon clouded skies 
Have only dropt their curtains low 

To shade the old mother where she lies 
Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow. 



SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS. 

" The cold is not in crag, nor scar, 
Not in the snows that lap the lea, 

Not in yon wings that beat afar, 
Delighting, on the crested sea ; 

" No, nor in yon exultant wind 

That shakes the oak and bends the pine. 
Look near, look in, and thou shalt find 

No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine ! " 

With that I felt the gloom depart, 
And thoughts within me did unfold, 

Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart, — 
I walked in joy, and was not cold. 



41 




LAURANCE. 



E knew she did not love him ; but so long 
As rivals were unknown to him, he dwelt 
At ease, and did not find his love a pain. 



He had much deference in his nature, need 

To honor — it became him ; he was frank, 

Fresh, hardy, of a joyous mind, and strong, — 

Looked all things straight in the face. So when she came 

Before him first, he looked at her, and looked 

No more, but colored to his healthful brow, 

And wished himself a better man, and thought 

On certain things, and wished they were undone, 

Because her girlish innocence, the grace 

Of her umblemished pureness, wrought in him 

A longing and aspiring, and a shame 

To think how wicked was the world, — that world 

Which he must walk in, — while from her (and such 

As she was) it was hidden ; there was made 

A clean path, and the girl moved on like one 

In some enchanted ring. 



LA URANCE. 

In his young heart 
She reigned, with all the beauties that she had, 
And all the virtues that he rightly took 
For granted ; there he set her with her crown, 
And at her first enthronement he turned out 
Much that was best away, for unaware 
His thoughts grew noble. She was always there 
And knew it not, and he grew like to her 
And like to what he thought her. 

Now he dwelt 
With kin that loved him well, — two fine old folk, 
A rich, right honest yeoman, and his dame, — * 
Their only grandson he, their pride, their heir. 

To these, one daughter had been born, one child, 
And as she grew to woman, " Look," they said, 
" She must not leave us ; let us build a wing, 
With cheerful rooms and wide, to our old grange ; 
There may she dwell, with her good man, and all 
God sends them." Then the girl in her first youth 
Married a curate, — handsome, poor in purse, 
Of gentle blood and manners, and he lived 
Under her father's roof, as they had planned. 

Full soon, for happy years are short, they filled 
The house with children ; four were born to them. 
Then came a sickly season ; fever spread 
Among the poor. The curate, never slack 
In duty, praying by the sick, or worse, 



43 



44 



LAU RANGE. 



Burying the dead, when all the air was clogged 
With poisonous mist, was stricken ; long he lay- 
Sick, almost to the death, and when his head 
He lifted from the pillow, there was left 
One only of that pretty flock : his girls, 
His three, were cold beneath the sod ; his boy, 
Their eldest born, remained. 

The drooping wife 
Bore her great sorrow in such quiet wise, 
That first they marvelled at her, then they tried 
To rouse her, showing her their bitter grief, 
Lamenting, and not sparing ; but she sighed, 
" Let me alone, it will not be for long." 
Then did her mother tremble, murmuring out, 
" Dear child, the best of comfort will be soon. 
O, when you see this other little face, 
You will, please God, be comforted." 

She said, . 
" I shall not live to see it " ; but she did, — 
A little sickly face, a wan, thin face. 
Then she grew eager, and her eyes were bright 
When she would plead with them : " Take me away, 
Let me go south ; it is the bitter blast 
That chills my tender babe ; she cannot thrive 
Under the desolate, dull, mournful cloud." 
Then all they journeyed south together, mute 
With past and coming sorrow, till the sun, 
In gardens edging the blue tideless main, 
Warmed them and calmed the aching at their hearts, 



LA URANCE. 

And all went better for a while ; but not 
For long. They sitting by the orange-trees 
Once rested, and the wife was very still : 
One woman with narcissus flowers heaped up 
Let down her basket from her head, but paused 
With pitying gesture, and drew near and stooped, 
Taking a white wild face upon her breast, — 
The little babe on its poor mother's knees, 
None marking it, none knowing else, had died. 

The fading mother could not stay behind, 
Her heart was broken ; but it awed them most 
To feel they must not, dared not, pray for life, 
Seeing she longed to go, and went so gladly. 

After, these three, who loved each other well, 
Brought their one child away, and they were best 
Together in the wide old grange. Full oft 
The father with the mother talked of her, 
Their daughter, but the husband nevermore ; 
He looked for solace in his work, and gave 
His mind to teach his boy. And time went on, 
Until the grandsire prayed those other two 
" Now part with him ; it must be ; for his good : 
He rules and knows it ; choose for him a school, 
Let him have all advantages, and all 
Good training that should make a gentleman/' 

With that they parted from their boy, and lived 



45 



46 LAURANCE. 

Longing between his holidays, and time 

Sped ; he grew on till he had eighteen years. 

His father loved him, wished to make of him 

Another parson ; but the farmer's wife 

Murmured at that : " No, no, they learned bad ways, 

They ran in debt at college ; she had heard 

That many rued the day they sent their boys 

To college " ; and between the two broke in 

His grandsire : " Find a sober, honest man, 

A scholar, for our lad should see the world 

While he is young, that he may marry young. 

He will not settle and be satisfied 

Till he has run about the world awhile. 

Good lack, I longed to travel in my youth, 

And had no chance to do it. Send him off, 

A sober man being found to trust him with, 

One with the fear of God before his eyes." 

And he prevailed ; the careful father chose 

A tutor, young, — the worthy matron thought, — 

In truth, not ten years older than her boy, 

And glad as he to range, and keen for snows, 

Desert, and ocean. And they made strange choice 

Of where to go, left the sweet day behind, 

And pushed up north in whaling ships, to feel 

What cold was, see the blowing whale come up, 

And Arctic creatures, while a scarlet sun 

Went round and round, crowd on the clear blue berg. 

Then did the trappers have them ; and they heard 



LAURANCE. 

Nightly the whistling calls of forest-men 

That mocked the forest wonners ; and they saw 

Over the open, raging up like doom, 

The dangerous dust-cloud, that was full of eyes, — 

The bisons. So were three years gone like one ; 

And the old cities drew them for a while, 

Great mothers, by the Tiber and the Seine ; 

They have hid many sons hard by their seats, 

But all the air is stirring with them still, 

The waters murmur of them, skies at eve 

Are stained with their rich blood, and every sound 

Means men. 

At last, the fourth year running out, 
The youth came home. And all the cheerful house 
Was decked in fresher colors, and the dame 
Was full of joy. But in the father's heart 
Abode a painful doubt. " It is not well ; 
He cannot spend his life with dog and gun. 
I do not care that my one son should sleep 
Merely for keeping him in breath, and wake 
Only to ride to cover." 

Not the less 
The grandsire pondered. " Ay, the boy must work 
Or spend ; and I must let him spend ; just stay 
Awhile with us, and then from time to time 
Have leave to be away with those fine folk 
With whom, these many years, at school, and now, 
During his sojourn in the foreign towns, 
He has been made familiar." Thus a month 



47 



48 LAURANCE. 

Went by. They liked the stirring ways of youth, 

The quick elastic step, and joyous mind, 

Ever expectant of it knew not what, 

But something higher than has e'er been born 

Of easy slumber and sweet competence. 

And as for him, — the while they thought and thought 

A comfortable instinct let him know 

How they had waited for him, to complete 

And give a meaning to their lives ; and still 

At home, but with a sense of newness there, 

And frank and fresh as in the school-boy days, 

He oft — invading of his father's haunts, 

The study where he passed the silent morn — 

Would sit, devouring with a greedy joy 

The piled-up books, uncut as yet ; or wake 

To guide with him by night the tube, and search, 

Ay, think to find new stars ; then risen betimes, 

Would ride about the farm, and list the talk 

Of his hale grandsire. 

But a day came round, 
When, after peering in his mother's room, 
Shaded and shuttered from the light, he oped 
A door, and found the rosy grandmother 
Ensconced and happy in her special pride, 
Her storeroom. She was corking syrups rare, 
And fruits all sparkling in a crystal coat. 
Here after choice of certain cates well known, 
He, sitting on her bacon-chest at ease, 
Sang as he watched her, till right suddenly, 



LAURANCE. 49 

As if a new thought came, " Goody," quoth he, 
" What, think you, do they want to do with me ? 
What have they planned for me that I should do ? " 

" Do, laddie ! " quoth she faltering, half in tears ; 
" Are you not happy with us, not content ? 
Why would ye go away ? There is no need 
That ye should do at all. O, bide at home. 
Have we not plenty ? " 

" Even so," he said ; 
" I did not wish to go." 

" Nay, then," quoth she, 
" Be idle ; let me see your blessed face. 
What, is the horse your father chose for you 
Not to your mind ? He is ? Well, well, remain ; 
Do as you will, so you but do it here. 
You shall not want for money." 

But, his arms 
Folding, he sat and twisted up his mouth 
With comical discomfiture. 

" What, then," 
She sighed, " what is it, child, that you would like ? " 
" Why," said he, " farming." 

And she looked at him, 
Fond, foolish woman that she was, to find 
Some fitness in the worker for the work, 
And she found none. A certain grace there was 
Of movement, and a beauty in the face, 
Sun-browned and healthful beauty that had come 

3 D 



50 



LAURANCE. 



From his grave father ; and she thought, " Good lack, 

A farmer ! he is fitter for a duke. 

He walks ; why, how he walks ! if I should meet 

One like him, whom I knew not, I should ask, 

And who may that be ? " So the foolish thought 

Found words. Quoth she, half laughing, half ashamed, 

" We planned to make of you — a gentleman." 

And with engaging sweet audacity 

She thought it nothing less, — he, looking up, 

With a smile in his blue eyes, replied to her, 

" And hav'n't you done it ? " Quoth she, lovingly, 

" I think we have, laddie ; I think we have." 

" Then," quoth he, " I may do what best I like ; 

It makes no matter. Goody, you were wise 

To help me in it, and to let me farm ; 

I think of getting into mischief else ! " 

" No ! do ye, laddie ? " quoth the dame, and laughed. 

" But ask my grandfather," the youth went on, 

" To let me have the farm he bought last year, 

The little one, to manage. I like land ; 

I want some." And she, womanlike, gave way 

Convinced ; and promised, and made good her word, 

And that same night upon the matter spoke, 

In presence of the father and the son. 

" Roger," quoth she, " our Lau ranee wants to farm ; 
I think he might do worse." The father sat 
Mute but right glad. The grandson breaking in 



LA URANCE. 

Set all his wish and his ambition forth ; 

But cunningly the old man hid his joy, 

And made conditions with a faint demur. 

Then pausing, " Let your father speak," quoth he ; 

" I am content if he is " : at his word 

The parson took him, ay, and, parson like, 

Put a religious meaning in the work, 

Man's earliest work, and wished his son God speed, 



ii. 



Thus all were satisfied, and day by day, 

For two sweet years a happy course was theirs ; 

Happy, but yet the fortunate, the young 

Loved, and much cared-for, entered on his strife, — 

A stirring of the heart, a quickening keen 

Of sight and hearing to the delicate 

Beauty and music of an altered world ; 

Began to walk in that mysterious light 

Which doth reveal and yet transform ; which gives 

Destiny, sorrow, youth, and death, and life, 

Intenser meaning ; in disquieting 

Lifts up ; a shining light : men call it Love. 

Fair, modest eyes had she, the girl he loved ; 
A silent creature, thoughtful, grave, sincere. 
She never turned from him with sweet caprice, 
Nor changing moved his soul to troublous hope, 
Nor dropped for him her heavy lashes low, 



51 



52 LAURANCE. 

But excellent in youthful grace came up ; 
And ere his words were ready, passing on, 
Had left him all a-tremble ; yet made sure 
That by her own true will, and fixed intent, 
She held him thus remote. Therefore, albeit 
He knew she did not love him, yet so long 
As of a rival unaware, he dwelt 
All in the present, without fear, or hope, 
Enthralled and whelmed in the deep sea of love, 
And could not get his head above its wave 
To reach the far horizon, or to mark 
Whereto it drifted him. 

So long, so long ; 
Then, on a sudden, came the ruthless fate, 
Showed him a bitter truth, and brought him bale 
All in the tolling out of noon. 

'T was thus : 
Snow-time was come ; it had been snowing hard ; 
Across the churchyard path he walked ; the clock 
Began to strike, and, as he passed the porch, 
Half turning, through a sense that came to him 
As of some presence in it, he beheld 
His love, and she had come for shelter there ; 
And all her face was fair with rosy bloom, 
The blush of happiness ; and one held up 
Her ungloved hand in both his own, and stooped 
Toward it, sitting by her. her eyes 
Were full of peace and tender light : they looked 
One moment in the unbraced lover's face 



LA URANCE. 

"While lie was passing in the snow ; and he 
Received the story, while he raised his hat 
Retiring. Then the clock left off to strike, 
And that was all. It snowed, and he walked on ; 
And in a certain way he marked the snow, 
And walked, and came upon the open heath ; 
And in a certain way he marked the cold, 
And walked as one that had no starting-place 
Might walk, but not to any certain goal. 

And he strode on toward a hollow part, 
Where from the hillside gravel had been dug, 
And he was conscious of a cry, and went 
Dulled in his sens-e, as though he heard it not ; 
Till a small farmhouse drudge, a half-grown girl, 
Rose from the shelter of a drift that lay 
Against the bushes, crying, " God ! O God, 
O my good God, He sends us help at last." 

Then looking hard upon her, came to him 
The power to feel and to perceive. Her teeth 
Chattered, and all her limbs with shuddering failed, 
And in her threadbare shawl was wrapped a child 
That looked on him with wondering, wistful eyes. 

" I thought to freeze," the girl broke out with tears ; 
" Kind sir, kind sir," and she held out the child, 
As praying him to take it ; and he did ; 
And gave to her the shawl, and swathed his charge 



53 



54 LAV r RANGE. 

In the foldings of his plaid ; and when it thrust 

Its small round face against his breast, and felt 

With small red hands for warmth, — unbearable 

Pains of great pity rent his straitened heart, 

For the poor upland dwellers had been out 

Since morning dawn, at early milking-time, 

Wandering and stumbling in the drift. And now, 

Lamed with a fall, half crippled by the cold, 

Hardly prevailed his arm to drag her on, 

That ill-clad child, who yet the younger child 

Had motherly cared to shield. So toiling through 

The great white storm coming, and coming yet, 

And coming till the world confounded sat 

With all her fair familiar features gone, 

The mountains muffled in an eddying swirl, 

He led or bore them, and the little one 

Peered from her shelter, pleased ; but oft would mourn 

The elder, " They will beat me : O my can, 

I left my can of milk upon the moor. 

And he compared her trouble with his own, 

And had no heart to speak. And yet 't was keen ; 

It filled her to the putting down of pain 

And hunger, — what could his do more ? 

He brought 
The children to their home, and suddenly 
Regained himself, and wondering at himself, 
That he had borne, and yet been dumb so long, 
The weary wailing of the girl : he paid 
Money to buy her pardon ; heard them say, 



LA URANCE. 

" Peace, we have feared for you ; forget the milk, 
It is no matter ! " and went forth again 
And waded in the snow, and quietly 
Considered in his patience what to do 
With all the dull remainder of his days. 

With dusk he was at home, and felt it good 

To hear his kindred talking, for it broke 

A mocking, endless echo in his soul, 

" It is no matter ! " and he could not choose 

But mutter, though the weariness o'ercame 

His spirit, " Peace, it is no matter ; peace, 

It is no matter ! " For he felt that all 

Was as it had been, and his father's heart 

Was easy, knowing not how that same clay 

Hope with her tender colors and delight 

(He should not care to have him know) were dead ; 

Yea, to all these, his nearest and most dear, 

It was no matter. And he heard them talk 

Of timber felled, of certain fruitful fields, 

And profitable markets. 

All for him 
Their plans, and yet the echoes swarmed and swam 
About his head, whenever there was pause ; 
" It is no matter ! " And his greater self 
Arose in him and fought. " It matters much, 
It matters all to these, that not to-day 
Nor ever they should know it. I will hide 
The wound ; ay, hide it with a sleepless care. 



55 



56 LA URANCE. 

What ! shall I make these three to drink of rue, 
Because my cup is bitter ? " And he thrust 
Himself in thought away, and made his ears 
Hearken, and caused his voice, that yet did seem 
Another, to make answer, when they spoke, 
As there had been no snowstorm, and no porch, 
And no despair. 

So this went on awhile 
Until the snow had melted from the wold, 
And he, one noonday, wandering up a lane, 
Met on a turn the woman whom he loved. 
Then, even to trembling he was moved : his speech 
Faltered ; but when the common kindly words 
Of greeting were all said, and she passed on, 
He could not bear her sweetness and his pain. 
" Muriel ! " he cried ; and when she heard her name, 
She turned. " You know I love you," he broke out : 
She answered " Yes/' and sighed. 

" pardon me, 
Pardon me," quoth the lover ; " let me rest 
In certainty, and hear it from your mouth : 
Is he with whom I saw you once of late 
To call you wife ? " "I hope so," she replied ; 
And over all her face the rose-bloom came, 
As thinking on that other, unaware 
Her eyes waxed tender. When he looked on her, 
Standing to answer him, with lovely shame, 
Submiss, and yet not his, a passionate, 
A quickened sense of his great impotence 






LA URANCE. 



$7 



To drive away the doom got hold on him ; 
He set his teeth to force the unbearable 
Misery back, his wide-awakened eyes 
Flashed as with flame. 

And she, all overawed 
And mastered by his manhood, waited yet, 
And trembled at the deep she could not sound ; 
A passionate nature in a storm ; a heart 
Wild with a mortal pain, and in the grasp 
Of an immortal love. 

" Farewell," he said, 
Recovering words, and when she gave her hand, 
" My thanks for your good candor ; for I feel 
That it has cost you something." Then, the blush 
Yet on her face, she said : " It was your due : 
But keep this matter from your friends and kin, 
We would not have it known." Then cold and proud, 
Because there leaped from under his straight lids, 
And instantly was veiled, a keen surprise, — 
" He wills it, and I therefore think.it well." 
Thereon they parted ; but from that time forth, 
Whether they met on festal eve, in field, 
Or at the church, she ever bore herself 
Proudly, for she had felt a certain pain, 
The disapproval hastily betrayed 
And quickly hidden hurt her. " 'T was a grace," 
She thought, " to tell this man the thing he asked, 
And he rewards me with surprise. I like 
No one's surprise, and least of all bestowed 

3* 



5 8 LAURANCE. 

Where he oestowed it." 

But the spring came on : 
Looking to wed in April all her thoughts 
Grew loving ; she would fain the world had waxed 
More happy with her happiness, and oft 
Walking among the flowery woods she felt 
Their loveliness reach down into her heart, 
And knew with them the ecstasies of growth, 
The rapture that was satisfied with light, 
The pleasure of the leaf in exquisite 
Expansion, through the lovely longed-for spring. 

And as for him, — (Some narrow hearts there are 

That suffer blight when that they fed upon 

As something to complete their being fails, 

And they retire into their holds and pine, 

And long restrained grow stern. But some there are 

That in a sacred want and hunger rise, 

And draw the misery home and live with it, 

And excellent in honqr wait, and will 

That somewhat good should yet be found in it, 

Else wherefore were they born ?), — and as for him, 

He loved her, but his peace and welfare made 

The sunshine of three lives. The cheerful grange 

Threw open wide its hospitable doors 

And drew in guests for him. The garden flowers, 

Sweet budding wonders, all were set for him. 

In him the eyes at home were satisfied, 

And if he did but laugh the ear approved. 



LAURANCE. 

What then ? He dwelt among them as of old, 
And taught his mouth to smile. 

And time went on, 
Till on a morning, when the perfect spring 
Rested among her leaves, he journeying home 
After short sojourn in a neighboring town, 
Stopped at the little station on the line 
That ran between his woods ; a lonely place 
And quiet, and a woman and a child 
Got out. He noted them, but walking on 
Quickly, went back into the wood, impelled 
By hope, for, passing, he had seen his love, 
And she was sitting on a rustic seat 
That overlooked the line, and he desired 
With longing indescribable to look 
Upon her face again. And he drew near. 
She was right happy ; she was waiting there. 
He felt that she was waiting for her lord. 
She cared no whit if Laurance went or stayed, 
But answered when he spoke, and dropped her cheek 
In her fair hand. 

And he, not able yet 
To force himself away, and never more 
Behold her, gathered blossom, primrose flowers, 
And wild anemone, for many a clump 
Grew all about him, and the hazel rods 
Were nodding with their catkins. But he heard 
The stopping train, and felt that he must go ; 
His time was come. There was nought else to do 



59 



60 LAURANCE. 

Or hope for. With the blossom he drew near, 

And would have had her take it from his hand ; 

But she, half lost in thought, held out her own, 

And then remembering him and his long love, 

She said, " I thank you ; pray you now forget, 

Forget me, Laurance," and her lovely eyes 

Softened ; but he was dumb, till through the trees 

Suddenly broke upon their quietude 

The woman and her child. And Muriel said, 

" What will you ? " She made answer quick and keen, 

" Your name, my lady ; 't is your name I want, 

Tell me your name." Not startled, not displeased, 

But with a musing sweetness on her mouth, 

As if considering in how short a while 

It would be changed, she lifted up her face 

And gave it, and the little child drew near 

And pulled her gown, and prayed her for the flowers. 

Then Laurance, not content to leave them so, 

Nor yet to wait the coming lover, spoke, — 

" Your errand with this lady ? " — " And your right 

To ask it ? " she broke out with sudden heat 

And passion : " What is that to you ! Poor child ! 

Madam ! " And Muriel lifted up her face 

And looked, — they looked into each other's eyes. 



" That man who comes," the clear-voiced woman cried, 
" That man with whom you think to wed so soon, 
You must not heed him. What ! the world is full 



LAURAS CE. 6 1 

Of men, and some are good, and most, God knows, 
Better than he, — that I should say it ! — far 
Better." And down her face the large tears ran, 
And Muriel's wild dilated eyes looked up, 
Taking a terrible meaning from her words ; 
And Laurance stared about him half in doubt 
If this were real, for all things were so blithe, 
And soft air tossed the little flowers about ; 
The child was singing, and the blackbirds piped, 
Glad in fair sunshine. And the women both 
"Were quiet, gazing in each other's eyes. 

He found his voice, and spoke : " This is not well, 

Though whom you speak of should have done you wrong ; 

A man that could desert and plan to wed 

"Will not his purpose yield to God and right, 

Only to law. You, whom I pity so much, 

If you be come this day to urge a claim, 

You will not tell me that your claim will hold ; 

'T is only, if I read aright, the old, 

Sorrowful, hateful story ! n 

Muriel sighed, 
With a dull patience that he marvelled at, 
a Be plain with me. I know not what to think, 
Unless you are his wife. Are you his wife ? 
Be plain with me." And all too quietly, 
With running down of tears, the answer came, 
" Ay, madam, ay ! the worse for him and me." 
Then Muriel heard her lover's foot anear, 



62 LA URANCE. 

And cried upon him with a bitter cry, 

Sharp and despairing. And those two stood back, 

With such affright, and violent anger stirred 

He broke from out the thicket to her side, 

Not knowing. But, her hands before her face, 

She sat ; and, stepping close, that woman came 

And faced him. Then said Muriel, " O my heart, 

Herbert ! " — and he was dumb, and ground his teeth, 

And lifted up his hand and looked at it, 

And at the woman ; but a man was there 

Who whirled her from her place, and thrust himself 

Between them ; he was strong, — a stalwart man : 

And Herbert thinking on it, knew his name. 

" What good," quoth he, " though you and I should skive 

And wrestle all this April day ? A word, 

And not a blow, is what these women want : 

Master yourself, and say it." But he, weak 

With passion and great anguish, flung himself 

Upon the seat and cried, " O lost, my love ! 

O Muriel, Muriel ! " And the woman spoke, 

" Sir, 't was an evil day you wed with me ; 

And you were young ; I know it, sir, right well. 

Sir, I have worked ; I have not troubled you, 

Not for myself, nor for your child. I know 

We are not equal." " Hold ! " he cried ; " have done ; 

Your still, tame words are worse than hate or scorn. 

Get from me ! Ay, my wife, my wife, indeed ! 

All 's done. You hear it, Muriel ; if you can, 

O sweet, forgive me." 



LAURANCE. 63 

Then the woman moved 
Slowly away : her little singing child 
Went in her wake : and Muriel dropped her hands, 
And sat before these two that loved her so, 
Mute and unheeding. There were angry words, 
She knew, but yet she could not hear the words ; 
And afterwards the man she loved stooped down 
And kissed her forehead once, and then withdrew 
To look at her, and with a gesture pray 
Her pardon. And she tried to speak, but failed, 
And presently, and soon, 0, — he was gone. 

She heard him go, and Laurance, still as stone, 
Eemained beside her ; and she put her hand 
Before her face again, and afterward 
She heard a voice, as if a long way off, 
Some one entreated, but she could not heed. 
Thereon he drew her hand away, and raised 
Her passive from her seat. So then she knew 
That he would have her go with him, go home, — 
It was not far to go, — a dreary home. 
A crippled aunt, of birth and -lineage high, 
Had in her youth, and for a place and home, 
Married the stern old rector ; and the girl 
Dwelt with them : she was orphaned, — had no kin 
Nearer than they. And Laurance brought her in, 
And spared to her the telling of this woe. 
He sought her kindred where they sat apart, 
And laid before them all the cruel thing, 



64 LAURANCE. 

As he had seen it. After, he retired : 

And restless, and not master of himself, 

He day and night haunted the rectory lanes ; 

And all things, even to the spreading out 

Of leaves, their flickering shadows on the ground, 

Or sailing of the slow, white cloud, or peace 

And glory and great light on mountain heads, — 

All things were leagued against him, — ministered 

By likeness or by contrast to his love. 

But what was that to Muriel, though her peace 
He would have purchased for her with all prayers, 
And costly, passionate, despairing tears ? 
O what to her that he should find it worse 
To bear her life's undoing than his own ? 

She let him see her, and she made no moan, 

But talked full calmly of indifferent things, 

Which when he heard, and marked the faded eyes 

And lovely wasted cheek, he started up 

With " This I cannot bear ! " and shamed to feel 

His manhood giving way, and utterly 

Subdued by her sweet patience and his pain, 

Made haste and from the window sprang, and paced, 

Battling and chiding with himself, the maze. 

She suffered, and he could not make her well 
For all his loving ; — he was naught to her. 
And now his passionate nature, set astir, 



LA URANCE. 



65 



Fought with the pain that could not be endured ; 
And like a wild thing suddenly aware 
That it is caged, which flings and bruises all 
Its body at the bars, he rose, and raged 
Against the misery : then he made all worse 
With tears. But when he came to her again, 
"Willing to talk as they had talked before, 
She sighed, and said, with that strange quietness, 
" I know you have been crying " : and she bent 
Her own fair head and wept. 

She felt the cold — 
The freezing cold that deadened all her life — 
Give way a little ; for this passionate 
Sorrow, and all for her, relieved her heart, 
And brought some natural warmth, some natural tears. 

in. 

And after that, though oft he sought her door, 

He might not see her. First they said to him, 

" She is not well " ; and afterwards, " Her wish 

Is ever to be quiet." Then in haste 

They took her from the place, because so fast 

She faded. As for him, though youth and strength 

Can bear the weight as of a world, at last 

The burden of it tells, — he heard it said, 

When autumn came, " The poor sweet thing will die : 

That shock was mortal." And he cared no more 

To hide, if yet he could have hidden, the blight 



66 LAURANCE. 

That was laying waste his heart. He journeyed south 
To Devon, where she dwelt with other kin, 
Good, kindly women ; and he wrote to them, 
Praying that he might see her ere she died. 

So in her patience she permitted him 
To be about her, for it eased his heart ; 
And as for her that was to die so soon, 
What did it signify ? She let him weep 
Some passionate tears beside her couch, she spoke 
Pitying words, and then they made him go, 
It was enough they said, her time was short, 
And he had seen her. He had seen, and felt 
The bitterness of death ; but he went home, 
Being satisfied in that great longing now, 
And able to endure what might befall. 

And Muriel lay, and faded with the year ; 
She lay at the door of death, that opened not 
To take her in ; for when the days once more 
Began a little to increase, she felt, — 
And it was sweet to her, she was so young, — 
She felt a longing for the time of flowers, 
And dreamed that she was walking in that wood 
With her two feet among the primroses. 

Then when the violet opened, she rose up 
And walked : the tender leaf and tender light 
Did solace her ; but she was white and wan, 



LA URANCE. 6 7 

The shadow of that Muriel, in the wood 
Who listened to those deadly words. 

And now 
Empurpled seas began to blush and bloom, 
Doves made sweet moaning, and the guelder rose 
In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, 
Her wealth about her feet, and there it lay, 
And drifted not at all. The lilac spread 
Odorous essence round her ; and full oft, 
When Muriel felt the warmth her pulses cheer, 
She, faded, sat among the Maytide bloom, 
And with a reverent quiet in her soul, 
Took back — it was His will — her time, and sat 
Learning again to live. 

Thus as she sat 
Upon a day, she was aware of one 
Who at a distance marked her. This again 
Another day, and she was vexed, for yet 
She longed for quiet ; but she heard a foot 
Pass once again, and beckoned through the trees. 
" Laurence ! " And all impatient of unrest 
And strife, ay, even of the sight of them, 
When he drew near, with tired, tired lips, 
As if her soul upbraided him, she said, 
" Why have you done this thing ? " He answered her, 
" I am not always master in the fight : 
I could not help it." 

" What ! " she sighed, " not yet ! 
O, I am sorry " ; and she talked to him 



68 LA URANCE. 

As one who looked to live, imploring him, — 
" Try to forget me. Let your fancy dwell 
Elsewhere, nor me enrich with it so long ; 
It wearies me to think of this your love. 
Forget me ! " 

He made answer, " I will try : 
The task will take me all my life to learn, 
Or were it learned, I know not how to live ; 
This pain is part of life and being now, — 
It is myself; but yet — but I will try." 
Then she spoke friendly to him, — of his home, 
His father, and the old, brave, loving folk ; 
She bade him think of them. And not her words, 
But having seen her, satisfied his heart. 
He left her, and went home to live his life, 
And all the summer heard it said of her, 
" Yet, she grows stronger " ; but when autumn came 
Again she drooped. 

A bitter thing it is 
To lose at once the lover and the love ; 
For who receiveth not may yet keep life 
In the spirit with bestowal. But for her, 
This Muriel, all was gone. The man she loved, 
Not only from her present had withdrawn, 
But from her past, and there was no such man, 
There never had been. 

( He was not as one 
Who takes love in, like some sweet bird, and holds 
The winged fluttering stranger to his breast, 



LA URANCE. 69 

Till, after transient stay, all unaware 

It leaves him : it has flown. No ; this may live 

In memory, — loved till death. He was not vile ; 

For who by choice would part with that pure bird, 

And lose the exaltation of its song ? 

He had not strength of will to keep it fast, 

Nor warmth of heart to keep it warm, nor life 

Of thought to make the echo sound for him 

After the song was done. Pity that man : 

His music is all flown, and he forgets 

The sweetness of it, till at last he thinks 

'T was no great matter. But he was not vile, 

Only a thing to pity most in man, 

Weak, — only poor, and, if he knew it, undone. 

But Herbert ! When she mused on it, her soul 

Would fain have hidden him forevermore, 

Even from herself: so pure of speech, so frank, 

So full of household kindness. Ah, so good 

And true ! A little, she had sometimes thought, 

Despondent for himself, but strong of faith 

In God, and faith in her, this man had seemed. 

Ay, he was gone ! and she whom he had wed, 
As Muriel learned, was sick, was poor, was sad. 
And Muriel wrote to comfort her, and send, 
From her small store, money to help her need, 
With, " Pray you keep it secret." Then the whole 
Of the cruel tale was told. 

What more ? She died. 



70 



LAURANCE. 



Her kin, profuse of thanks, not bitterly, 
Wrote of the end. " Our sister fain had seen 
Her husband ; prayed hirn sore to come. But no. 
And then she prayed him that he would forgive, 
Madam, her breaking of the truth to you. 
Dear madam, he was angry, yet we think 
He might have let her see, before she died, 
The words she wanted, but he did not write 
Till she was gone — \ I neither can forgive, 
Nor would I if I could.'" 

" Patience, my heart ! 
And this, then, is the man I loved ! " 

But yet 
He sought a lower level, for he wrote 
Telling the story with a different hue, 
Telling of freedom. He desired to come, 
"For now," said he, "O love, may all be well." 
And she rose up against it in her soul, 
For she despised him. And with passionate tears 
Of shame, she wrote, and only wrote these words, — 
"Herbert, I will not see you." 

Then she drooped 
Again ; it is so bitter to despise ; 

And all her strength, when autumn leaves down dropped, 
Fell from her. " Ah ! " she thought, " I rose up once, 
I cannot rise up now ; here is the end." 
And all her kinsfolk thought, " It is the end." 

But when that other heard, " It is the end," 



LAURANCE. 7 1 

His heart was sick, and he, as by a power 
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her. 
Reason rebelled against it, but his will 
Required it of him with a craving strong 
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain. 

She, when she saw his face, considered him 

Full quietly, let all excuses pass 

Not answered, and considered yet again. 

" He had heard that she was sick ; what could he do 
But come, and ask her pardon that he came ? " 
What could he do, indeed ? — a weak white girl 
Held all his heartstrings in her small white hand ; 
His youth, and power, and majesty were hers, 
And not his own. 

She looked, and pitied him, 
Then spoke : " He loves me with a love that lasts. 
Ah, me ! that I might get away from it, 
Or, better, hear it said that love is not, 
And then I could have rest. My time is short, 
I think, so short." And roused against himself 
In stormy wrath, that it should be his doom 
Her to disquiet whom he loved ; ay, her 
For whom he would have given all his rest, 
If there were any left to give ; he took 
Her words up bravely, promising once more 
Absence, and praying pardon ; but some tears 
Dropped quietly upon her cheek. 



72 LAURANCE. 

" Remain," 
She said, " for there is something to be told, 
Some words that you must hear. 

" And first hear this : 
God has been good to me ; you must not think 
That I despair. There is a quiet time 
Like evening in my soul. I have no heart, 
For cruel Herbert killed it long ago, 
And death strides on. Sit, then, and give your mind 
To listen, and your eyes to look at me. 
Look at my face, Laurance, how white it is ; 
Look at my hand, — my beauty is all gone." 
And Laurance lifted up his eyes ; he looked, 
But answered, from their deeps that held no doubt, 
Far otherwise than she had willed, — they said, 
" Lovelier than ever." 

Yet her words went on, 
Cold and so quiet, " I have suffered much, 
And I would fain that none who care for me 
Should suffer a like pang that I can spare. 
Therefore," said she, and not at all could blush, 
" I have brought my mind of late to think of this : 
That since your life is spoilt (not willingly, 
My God, not willingly by me), 'twere well 
To give you choice of griefs. 

"Were it not best 
To weep for a dead love, and afterwards 
Be comforted the sooner, that she died 
Kemote, and left not in your house and life 



LA URANCE. 



73 



Aught to remind you ? That indeed were best. 
But were it best to weep for a dead wife, 
And let the sorrow spend and satisfy 
Itself with all expression, and so end ? 
I think not so ; but if for you 't is best, 
Then, — do not answer with too sudden words : 
It matters much to you ; not much, not much 
To me, — then truly I will die your wife ; 
I will marry you." 

What was he like to say, 
But, overcome with love and tears, to choose 
The keener sorrow, — take it to his heart, 
Cherish it, make it part of him, and watch 
Those eyes that were his light till they should close ? 

He answered her with eager, faltering words, 

"I choose, — my heart is yours, — die in my arms." 

But was it well ? Truly, at first, for him 

It was not well : he saw her fade, and cried, 

" When may this be ? " She answered, " When you will," 

And cared not much, for very faint she grew, 

Tired and cold. Oft in her soul she thought, 

" If I could slip away before the ring 

Is on my hand, it were a blessed lot 

For both, — a blessed thing for him, and me." 

But it was not so ; for the day had come, — 
Was over : days and months had come, and Death, — 
4 



74 



LAURANCE. 



Within whose shadow she had lain, which made 

Earth and its loves, and even its bitterness, 

Indifferent, — Death withdrew himself, and life 

Woke up, and found that it was folded fast, 

Drawn to another life forevermore. 

O, what a waking ! After it there came 

Great silence. She got up once more, in spring, 

And walked, but not alone, among the flowers. 

She thought within herself, " What have I done ? 

How shall I do the rest ? " And he, who felt 

Her inmost thought, was silent even as she. 

"What have we done?" she thought. But as for him, 

When she began to look him in the face, 

Considering, " Thus and thus his features are," 

For she had never thought on them before, 

She read their grave repose aright. She knew 

That in the stronghold of his heart, held back, 

Hidden reserves of measureless content 

Kept house with happy thought, for her sake mute. 

Most patient Muriel ! when he brought her home, 
She took the place they gave her, — strove to please 
His kin, and did not fail ; but yet thought on, 
"What have I done? how shall I do the rest? 
Ah ! so contented, Laurance, with this wife 
That loves you not, for all the stateliness 
And grandeur of your manhood, and the deeps 
In your blue eyes." And after that awhile 
She rested from such thinking, put it by 



LAURANCE. 75 

And waited. She had thought on death before : 
But no, this Muriel was not yet to die ; 
And when she saw her little tender babe, 
She felt how much the happy days of life 
Outweigh the sorrowful. A tiny thiag, 
"Whom when it slept the lovely mother nursed 
With reverent love, whom when it woke she fed 
And wondered at, and lost herself in long 
Rapture of watching, and contentment deep. 

Once while she sat, this babe upon her knee, 
Her husband and his father standing nigh, 
About to ride, the grandmother, all pride 
And consequence, so deep in learned talk 
Of infants, and their little ways and wiles, 
Broke off to say, " I never saw a babe 
So like its father." And the thought was new 
To Muriel ; she looked up, and when she looked, 
Her husband smiled. And she, the lovely bloom 
Flushing her face, would fain he had not known, 
Nor noticed her surprise. But he did know ; 
Yet there was pleasure in his smile, and love 
Tender and strong. He kissed her, kissed his babe, 
With " Goody, you are left in charge, take care " — 
"As if I needed telling," quoth the dame ; 
And they were gone. 

Then Muriel, lost in thought, 
Gazed ; and the grandmother, with open pride, 
Tended the lovely pair ; till Muriel said, 



76 LAURANCE. 

"Is she so like ? Dear granny, get me now 
The picture that his father has " ; and soon 
The old woman put it in her hand. 

The wife, 
Considering it with deep and strange delight, 
Forgot for once her babe, and looked and learned. 

A mouth for mastery and manful work, 
A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes, 
A brow the harbor of grave thought, and hair 
Saxon of hue. She conned ; then blushed again, 
Remembering now, when she had looked on him, 
The sudden radiance of her husband's smile. 

But Muriel did not send the picture back ; 
She kept it ; while her beauty and her babe 
Flourished together, and in health and peace 
She lived. 

Her husband never said to her, 
" Love, are you happy ? " never said to her, 
"Sweet, do you love me?" and at first, whene'er 
They rode together in the lanes, and paused, 
Stopping their horses, when the day was hot, 
In the shadow of a tree, to watch the clouds, 
Ruffled in drifting on the jagged rocks 
That topped the mountains, — when she sat by him, 
Withdrawn at even while the summer stars 
Came starting out of nothing, as new made, 
She felt a little trouble, and a wish 



LA URANCE. jj 

That he would yet keep silence, and he did. 
That one reserve he would not touch, but still 
Respected. 

Muriel grew more brave in time, 
And talked at ease, and felt disquietude 
Fade. And another child was given to her. 

"Now we shall do," the old great-grandsire cried, 
"For this is the right sort, a boy." "Fie, fie," 
Quoth the good dame ; but never heed you, love, 
He thinks them both as right as right can be." 

But Laurance went from home, ere yet the boy 
Was three weeks old. It fretted him to go, 
But yet he said, " I must " : and she was left 
Much with the kindly dame, whose gentle care 
"Was like a mother's ; and the two could talk 
Sweetly, for all the difference in their years. 

But unaware, the wife betrayed a wish 

That she had known why Laurance left her thus. 

"Ay, love," the dame made answer; "for he said, 

' Goody,' before he left, ' if Muriel ask 

No question, tell her naught ; but if she let 

Any disquietude appear to you, 

Say what you know.' " " What ? " Muriel said, and 

laughed, 
"I ask, then." 

" Child, it is that your old love, 



jg LAURANCE. 

Some two months past, was here. Nay, never start : 
He 's gone. He came, our Laurance met him near ; 
He said that he was going over seas, 
'And might I see your wife this only once, 
And get her pardon ? ' " 

" Mercy ! " Muriel cried, 
"But Laurance does not wish it ? " 

" Nay, now, nay," 
Quoth the good dame. 

" I cannot," Muriel cried ; 
" He does not, surely, think I should." 

« Not he," 
The kind old woman said, right soothingly. 
" Does not he ever know, love, ever do 
What you like best ? " 

And Muriel, trembling yet, 
Agreed. " I heard him say," the dame went on, 
"For I was with him when they met that day, 
'It would not be agreeable to my wife.'" 

Then Muriel, pondering, — " And he said no more ? 
You think he did not add, 'nor to myself?'" 
And with her soft, calm, inward voice, the dame 
Unruffled answered, " No, sweet heart, not he : 
What need he care ? " " And why not ? " Muriel cried, 
Longing to hear the answer. " 0, he knows, 
He knows, love, very well " : with that she smiled. 
" Bless your fair face, you have not really thought 
He did not know you loved him ? " 



LAURANCE. 



79 



Muriel said, 
"He never told me, goody, that he knew." 
" Well," quoth the dame, " but it may chance, my dear. 
That he thinks best to let old troubles sleep : 
Why need to rouse them ? You are happy, sure ? 
But if one asks, ' Art happy ? ' why, it sets 
The thoughts a-working. No, say I, let love, 
Let peace and happy folk alone. 

" He said, 
' It would not be agreeable to my wife.' 
And he went on to add, in course of time 
That he would ask you, when it suited you, 
To write a few kind words." 

" Yes," Muriel said, 
"I can do that." 

" So Laurance went, you see," 
The soft voice added, " to take down that child. 
Laurance had written oft about the child, 
And now, at last, the father made it known 
He could not take him. He has lost, they say, 
His money, with much gambling ; now he wants 
To lead a good, true, working life. He wrote, 
And let this so be seen, that Laurance went 
And took the child, and took the money down 
To pay." 

And Muriel found her talking sweet, 
And asked once more, the rather that she longed 
To speak again of Laurance, " And you think 
He knows I love him ? " 



80 LAURANCE. 

" Ay, good sooth, he knows 
No fear ; but he is like his father, love. 
His father never asked my pretty child 
One prying question ; took her as she was ; 
Trusted her ; she has told me so : he knew 
A woman's nature. Laurance is the same. 
He knows you love him ; but he will not speak ; 
No, never. Some men are such gentlemen ! " 



SONGS 



OF 



THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



SONGS OP THE NIGHT WATCHES, 

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SONG OF EVENING, AND A 
CONCLUDING SONG OF THE EARLY DAY. 




INTRODUCTORY. 
{Old English Manner.) 

APPRENTICED. 

OME out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet 
hoot, the owlet hoot ; 
Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim 
behind the tree, O ! 
The dropping thorn makes white the grass, sweetest 
lass, and sweetest lass ; 
Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft 
with me, O ! " 

" My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, 
and drops her reel ; 
My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can 
be, O! 



84 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere 
light wax dim ; 
How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with 
thee, 0?" 

" And must ye bide, yet waiting 's long, and love is strong, 
and love is strong ; 
And O ! had I but served the time, that takes so long 
to flee, O ! 
And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, 
wast all in white, 
And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and 
thee, O." 



THE FIRST WATCH. 
TIRED. 



O, I would tell you more, but I am tired ; 

For I have longed, and I have had my will ; 
I pleaded in my spirit, I desired : 

" Ah ! let me only see him, and be still 
All my days after." 

Rock, and rock, and rock, 
Over the falling, rising watery world, 

Sail, beautiful ship, along the leaping main ; 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 85 

The chirping land-birds follow flock on flock 

To light on a warmer plain. 
White as weaned lambs the little wavelets curled, 

Fall over in harmless play, 

As these do far away ; 
Sail, bird of doom, along the shimmering sea, 
All under thy broad wings that overshadow thee. 



11. 

I am so tired, 
If I would comfort me, I know not how, 

For I have seen thee, lad, as I desired, 
And I have nothing left to long for now. 

Nothing at all. And did I wait for thee, 

Often and often, while the light grew dim, 
And through the lilac branches I could see, 
Under a saffron sky, the purple rim 
O' the heaving moorland ? Ay. And then would float 
Up from behind as it were a golden boat, 
Freighted with fancies, all o' the wonder of life, 

Love — such a slender moon, going up and up, 
Waxing so fast from night to night, 
And swelling like an orange flower-bud, bright, 

Fated, methought, to round as to a golden cup, 
And hold to my two lips life's best of wine. 
Most beautiful crescent moon, 
Ship of the sky ! 



86 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

Across the unfurrowecl reaches sailing high. 

Methought that it would come my way full soon, 
Laden with blessings that were all, all mine, — 
A golden ship, with balm and spiceries rife, 
That ere its day was done should hear thee call me wife. 



in. 

All over ! the celestial sign hath failed ; 

The orange flower-bud shuts ; the ship hath sailed, 

And sunk behind the long low-lying hills. 
The love that fed on daily kisses dieth ; 
The love kept warm by nearness, lieth 
Wounded and wan ; 

The love hope nourished bitter tears distils, 
And faints with naught to feed upon. 
Only there stirreth very deep below 
The hidden beating slow, 

And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 
Of the love that conquers death. 



IV. 

Had we not loved full long, and lost all fear, 

My ever, my only dear ? 

Yes ; and I saw thee start upon thy way, 
So sure that we should meet 
Upon our trysting-day. 
And even absence then to me was sweet, 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 8? 

Because it brought me time to brood 
Upon thy clearness in the solitude. 
But ah ! to stay, and stay, 
And let that moon of April wane itself away, 

And let the lovely May 
Make ready all her buds for June ; 
And let the glossy finch forego her tune 
That she brought with her in the spring, 
And never more, I think, to me can sing ; 
And then to lead thee home another bride, 

In the sultry summertide, 
And all forget me save for shame full sore, 
That made thee pray me, absent, " See my face no more." 



v. 

O hard, most hard ! But while my fretted heart 
Shut out, shut down, and full of pain, 
Sobbed to itself apart, 
Ached to itself in vain, 
One came who loveth me 

As I love thee 

And let my God remember him for this, 
As I do hope He will forget thy kiss, 
Nor visit on thy stately head 
Aught that thy mouth hath sworn, or thy two eyes have 

said 

He came, and it was dark. He came, and sighed 
Because he knew the sorrow, — whispering low, 



88 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

And fast, and thick, as one that speaks by rote : 
" The vessel lieth in the river reach, 

A mile above the beach, 
And she will sail at the turning o' the tide." 

He said, " I have a boat, 

And were it good to go, 
And unbeholden in the vessel's wake 
Look on the man thou lovedst, and forgive, 
As he embarks, a shamefaced fugitive. 
Come, then, with me." 



VI. 

O, how he sighed ! The little stars did wink, 
And it was very dark. I gave my hand, — 
He led me out across the pasture land, 
And through the narrow croft, 
Down to the river's brink. 
When thou wast full in spring, thou little sleepy thing, 
The yellow flags that broidered thee would stand 
Up to their chins in water, and full oft 
We pulled them and the other shining flowers, 

That all are gone to-day : 
We two, that had so many things to say, 
So many hopes to render clear : 
And they are all gone after thee, my dear, — 
Gone after those sweet hours, 
That tender light, that balmy rain ; 
Gone " as a wind that passe th away, 
And cometh not again." 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 89 

VII. 

I only saw the stars, — I could not see 
The river, — and they seemed to lie 
As far below as the other stars were high. 

I trembled like a thing about to die : 
It was so awful 'neath the majesty 
Of that great crystal height, that overhung 
The blackness at our feet, 
Unseen to fleet and fleet 
The flocking stars among, 
And only hear the dipping of the oar, 
And the small wave's caressing of the darksome shore. 



VIII. 

Less real it was than any dream. 
Ah me ! to hear the bending willows shiver, 
As we shot quickly from the silent river, 

And felt the swaying and the flow 
That bore us down the deeper, wider stream, 

Whereto its nameless waters go : 
! I shall always, when I shut mine eyes, 

See that weird sight again ; 
The lights from anchored vessels hung ; 
The phantom moon, that sprung 
Suddenly up in dim and angry wise, 

From the rim o' the moaning main. 

And touched with elfin light 



90 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



The two long oars whereby we made our flight, 

Along the reaches of the night ; 
Then farrowed up a lowering cloud, 
Went in, and left us darker than before. 
To feel our way as the midnight watches wore, 
And lie in her lee, with mournful faces bowed, 
That should receive and bear with her away 
The brightest portion of my sunniest day, — 
The laughter of the land, the sweetness of the shore. 



IX. 



And I beheld thee : saw the lantern flash 

Down on thy face, when thou didst climb the side. 

And thou wert pale, pale as the patient bride 

That followed ; both a little sad, 
Leaving of home and kin. Thy courage glad, 

That once did bear thee on, 
That brow of thine had lost ; the fervor rash 
Of unforeboding youth thou hadst foregone. 
O, what a little moment, what a crumb 
Of comfort for a heart to feed upon ! 

And that was all its sum ; 

A glimpse, and not a meeting, — 

A drawing near by night, 
To sigh to thee an unacknowledged greeting, 
And all between the flashing of a light 

And its retreating. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. gi 



Then after, ere she spread her wafting wings, 
The ship, — and weighed her anchor to depart, 
We stole from her dark lee, like guilty things ; 

And there was silence in my heart, 
And silence in the upper and the nether deep. 

sleep ! O sleep ! 
Do not forget me. Sometimes come and sweep, 
Now I have nothing left, thy healing hand 
Over the lids that crave thy visits bland, 
Thou kind, thou comforting one : 
For I have seen his face, as I desired, 
And all my story is done. 
0, 1 am tired ! 



THE MIDDLE WATCH. 



I woke in the night, and the darkness was heavy and 
deep: 
I had known it was dark in my sleep, 
And I rose and looked out, 
And the fathomless vault was all sparkling, set thick 

round about 
With the ancient inhabiters silent, and wheeling too far 



9 2 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

For man's heart, like a voyaging frigate, to sail, where 
remote 
In the sheen of their glory they float, 
Or man's soul, like a bird, to fly near, of their beams to 
partake, 
And dazed in their wake, 
Drink day that is born of a star. 
I murmured, " Remoteness and greatness, how deep you 
are set, 
How afar in the rim of the whole ; 
You know nothing of me, nor of man, nor of earth, 0, nor 
yet 
Of our light-bearer, — drawing the marvellous moons 
as they roll, 
Of our regent, the sun. 
I look on you trembling, and think, in the dark with my 

soul, 
" How small is our place 'mid the kingdoms and nations 
of God: 
These are greater than we, every one." 
And there falls a great fear, and a dread cometh over, 
that cries, 
" my hope ! Is there any mistake ? 
Did He speak ? Did I hear ? Did I listen aright, if He 

spake ? 
Did I answer Him duly ? For surely I now am awake, 

If never I woke until now." 
And a light, baffling wind, that leads nowhither, plays on 
my brow. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



93 



As a sleep, I must think on my day, of my path as un- 

trod, 
Or trodden in dreams, in a dreamland whose coasts are a 

doubt ; 
Whose countries recede from my thoughts, as they grope 
round about, 
And vanish, and tell me not how. 
Be kind to our darkness, O Fashioner, dwelling in light, 

And feeding the lamps of the sky ; 
Look down upon this one, and let it be sweet in Thy 
sight, 
I pray Thee, to-night. 
O watch whom Thou madest to dwell on its soil, Thou 

Most High ! 
For this is a world full of sorrow (there may be but 

one) ; 
Keep watch o'er its dust, else Thy children for aye are 
undone, 
For this is a world where we die. 



ii. 

With that, a still voice in my spirit that moved and that 

yearned, 
(There fell a great calm while it spake,) 
I had heard it ere while, but the noises of life are so loud, 
That sometimes it dies in the cry of the street and the 

crowd : 
To the simple it cometh, — the child, or asleep, or awake, 



94 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

And they know not from whence ; of its nature the wise 

never learned 
By his wisdom ; its secret the worker ne'er earned 
By his toil ; and the rich among men never bought with 
his gold ; 
Nor the times of its visiting monarchs controlled, 

Nor the jester put down with his jeers 
(For it moves where it will), nor its season the 
aged discerned 
By thought, in the ripeness of years. 

elder than reason, and stronger than will ! 
A voice, when the dark world is still : 
Whence cometh it? Father Immortal, thou knowest! 

and we, — 
We are sure of that witness, that sense which is sent us 

of Thee ; 
For it moves, and it yearns in its fellowship mighty and 

dread, 
And let down to our hearts it is touched by the tears that 

we shed ; 
It is more than all meanings, and over all strife ; 
On its tongue are the laws of our life, 
And it counts up the times of the dead. 



in. 



I will fear you, stars, never more. 
I have felt it ! Go on, while the world is asleep, 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 95 

Golden islands, fast moored in God's infinite deep. 
Hark, hark to the words of sweet fashion, the harpings of 

yore ! 
How they sang to Him, seer and saint, in the far away 
lands : 
" The heavens are the work of Thy hands ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure ; 
Yea, they all shall wax old, — 
But Thy throne is established, O God, and Thy years are 
made sure ; 
They shall perish, but Thou shalt endure, — 
They shall pass like a tale that is told." 



Doth He answer, the Ancient of Days ? 
Will He speak in the tongue and the fashion of 
men? 
(Hist ! hist ! while the heaven-hung multitudes shine in 

His praise, 
His language of old.) Nay, He spoke with them first ; 
it was then 
They lifted their eyes to His throne ; 
" They shall call on Me, ' Thou art our Father, our God, 

Thou alone ! ' 
For I made them, I led them in deserts and desolate 
ways ; 
I have found them a Ransom Divine ; 
I have loved them with love everlasting, the children of 
men; 
I swear by Myself, they are Mine." 



96 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 



THE MORNING WATCH. 



THE COMING IN OF THE "MERMAIDEN.' 



THE moon is bleached as white as wool, 
And just dropping under; 
Every star is gone but three, 

And they hang far asunder, — 
There 's a sea-ghost all in gray, 
A tall shape of wonder ! 

I am not satisfied with sleep, — 

The night is not ended. 
But look how the sea-ghost comes, 

With wan skirts extended, 
Stealing up in this weird hour, 

When light and dark are blended. 



A vessel ! To the old pier end 
Her happy course she 's keeping ; 

I heard them name her yesterday : 
Some were pale with weeping ; 

Some with their heart-hunger sighed, 
She 's in, — and they are sleeping. 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

O ! now with fancied greetings blest, 
They comfort their long aching : 

The sea of sleep hath borne to them 
What would not come with waking, 

And the dreams shall most be true 
In their blissful breaking. 

The stars are gone, the rose-bloom comes, — 

No blush of maid is sweeter ; 
The red sun, half way out of bed, 

Shall be the first to greet her. 
None tell the news, yet sleepers wake, 

And rise, and run to meet her. 

Their lost they have, they hold ; from pain 

A keener bliss they borrow. 
How natural is joy, my heart ! 

How easy after sorrow ! 
For once, the best is come that hope 

Promised them " to-morrow." 



97 



98 SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. 

CONCLUDING SONG OF DAWN. 

(Old English Manner.) 

A MOKN OF MAY. 

ALL the clouds about the sun lay up in golden 
creases, 
(Merry rings the maiden's voice that sings at dawn of 

day;) 
Lambkins woke and skipped around to dry their dewy 

fleeces, 
So sweetly as she carolled, all on a morn of May. 

Quoth the Sergeant, " Here I '11 halt ; here 's wine of joy 

for drinking ; 
To my heart she sets her hand, and in the strings doth 

play; 
All among the daffodils, and fairer to my thinking, 
And fresh as milk and roses, she sits this morn of May." 

Quoth the Sergeant, " Work is work, but any ye might 

make me, 
If I worked for you, dear lass, I 'd count my holiday. 
I 'm your slave for good and all, an' if ye will but take 

me, 
So sweetly as ye carol upon this morn of May." 



SONGS OF THE NIGHT WATCHES. gg 

" Medals count for worth," quoth she, " and scars are 

worn for honor ; 
But a slave an' if ye be, kind wooer, go your way." 
All the nodding daffodils woke up and laughed upon her. 
! sweetly did she carol, all on that morn of May. 

Gladsome leaves upon the bough, they fluttered fast and 

faster, 
Fretting brook, till he would speak, did chide the dull 

delay : 
" Beauty ! when I said a slave, I think I meant a master ; 
So sw r eetly as ye carol all on this morn of May. 

" Lass, I love you ! Love is strong, and some men's 

hearts are tender." 
Far she sought o'er wood and wold, but found not aught 

to say ; 
Mounting lark nor mantling cloud would any counsel 

render, 
Though sweetly she had carolled upon that morn of May. 

Shy, she sought the wooer's face, and deemed the wooing 

mended ; 
Proper man he was, good sooth, and one would have his 

way: 
So the lass was made a wife, and so the song w r as ended. 
! sweetly she did carol all on that morn of May. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 




BOOK I. 

ILOIYA said to Noah, " What aileth thee, 
My master, unto whom is my desire, 
The father of my sons ? " He answered her, 
" Mother of many children, I have heard 
The Voice again." " Ah, me ! " she saith, " ah, me ! 
What spake it ? " Niloiya sighed. 

This when the Master-builder heard, his heart 

Was sad in him, the while he sat at home 

And rested after toil. The steady rap 

O' the shipwright's hammer sounding up the vale 

Did seem to mock him ; but her distaff down 

Niloiya laid, and to the doorplace went, 

Parted the purple covering seemly hung 

Before it, and let in the crimson light 

Of the descending sun. Then looked he forth, — 

Looked, and beheld the hollow where the ark 

Was a-preparing ; where the dew distilled 



A STORY OF DOOM. IO i 

All night from leaves of old lign aloe-trees, 
Upon the gliding river ; where the palm, 
The almug, and the gophir shot their heads 
Into the crimson brede that dyed the world : 
And lo ! he marked — unwieldy, dark, and huge — 
The ship, his glory and his grief, — too vast 
For that still river's floating, — building far 
From mightier streams, amid the pastoral dells 
Of shepherd kings. 

Niloiya spake again : 
u What said the Voice, thou well-beloved man ? " 
He, laboring with his thought that troubled him, 
Spoke on behalf of God : " Behold," said he, 
" A little handful of unlovely dust 
He fashioned to a lordly grace, and when 
He laughed upon its beauty, it waxed warm, 
And with His breath awoke a living soul. 

" Shall not the Fashioner command His work ? 
And who am I, that, if He whisper, i Rise, 
Go forth upon Mine errand,' should reply, 
6 Lord, God, I love the woman and her sons, — 
I love not scorning : I beseech Thee, God, 
Have me excused.' " 

She answered him, " Tell on." 
And he continuing, reasoned with his soul : 
" What though I, — like some goodly lama sunk 
In meadow grass, eating her way at ease, 
Unseen of them that pass, and asking not 



102 A STORY OF DOOM. 

A wider prospect than of yellow-flowers 

That nod above her head, — should lay me down, 

And willingly forget this high behest, 

There should be yet no tarrying. Furthermore, 

Though I went forth to cry against the doom, 

Earth crieth louder, and she draws it down : 

It hangeth balanced over us ; she crieth, 

And it shall fall. O ! as for me, my life 

Is bitter, looking onward, for I know 

That in the fulness of the time shall dawn 

That day : my preaching shall not bring forth fruit, 

Though for its sake I leave thee. I shall float 

Upon the abhorred sea, that mankind hate, 

With thee and thine." 

She answered : " God forbid ! 
For, sir, though men be evil, yet the deep 
They dread, and at the last will surely turn 
To Him, and He long-suffering will forgive, 
And chide the waters back to their abyss, 
To cover the pits where doleful creatures feed. 
Sir, I am much afraid : I would not hear 
Of riding on the waters : look you, sir, 
Better it were to die with you by hand 
Of them that hate us, than to live, ah me ! 
Rolling among the furrows of the unquiet, 
Unconsecrate, unfriendly, dreadful sea." 

He saith again : " I pray thee, woman, peace, 
For thou wilt enter, when that day appears, 



A STORY OF DOOM. I03 

The fateful ship." 

" My lord," quoth she, " I will- 
But 0, good sir, be sure of this, be sure 
The Master calleth ; for the time is long 
That thou hast warned the world : thou art but here 
Three days ; the song of welcoming but now 
Is ended. I behold thee, I am glad ; 
And wilt thou go again ? Husband, I say, 
Be sure who 't is that calleth ; O, be sure, 
Be sure. My mother's ghost came up last night, 
Whilst I thy beard, held in my hands did kiss, 
Leaning anear thee, wakeful through my love, 
And watchful of thee till the moon went down. 

" She never loved me since I went with thee 
To sacrifice among the hills : she smelt 
The holy smoke, and could no more divine 
Till the new moon. I saw her ghost come up ; 
It had a snake with a red comb of fire 
Twisted about its waist, — the doggish head 
Lolled on its shoulder, and so leered at me. 
6 This woman might be wiser,' quoth the ghost ; 
6 Shall there be husbands for her found below, 
When she comes down to us ? O, fool ! O, fool ! 
She must not let her man go forth, to leave 
Her desolate, and reap the whole world's scorn, 
A harvest for himself/ With that they passed." 

He said, " My crystal drop of perfectness, 



io4 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



I pity thee ; it was an evil ghost : 
Thou wilt not heed the counsel ? " "I will not," 
Quoth she ; " I am loyal to the Highest. Him 
I hold by even as thou, and deem Him best. 
Sir, am I fairer than when last we met ? " 

" God add," said he, " unto thy much yet more, 
As I do think thou art." " And think you, sir," 
Niloiya saith, " that I have reached the prime ? " 
He answering, " Nay, not yet." " I would 't were so," 
She plaineth, " for the daughters mock at me : 
Her locks forbear to grow, they say, so sore 
She pineth for the master. Look you, sir, 
They reach but to the knee. But thou art come, 
And all goes merrier. Eat, my lord, of all 
My supper that I set, and afterward 
Tell me, I pray thee, somewhat of thy way ; 
Else shall I be despised as Adam was, 
Who compassed not the learning of his sons, 
But, grave and silent, oft would lower his head 
And ponder, following of great Isha's feet, 
When she would walk with her fair brow upraised, 
Scorning the children that she bare to him." 

" Ay," quoth the Master ; " but they did amiss 

When they despised their father : knowest thou that ? " 

" Sure he was foolisher," Niloiya saith, 

" Than any that came after. Furthermore, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

He had not heart nor courage for to rule : 
He let the mastery fall from his slack hand. 
Had not our glorious mother still borne up 
His weakness, chid with him, and sat apart, 
And listened, when the fit came over him 
To talk on his lost garden, he had sunk 
Into the slave of slaves." 

" Nay, thou must think 
How he had dwelt long, God's loved husbandman, 
And looked in hope among the tribes for one 
To be his fellow, ere great Isha, once 
Waking, he found at his left side, and knew 
The deep delight of speech." So Noah, and thus 
Added, " And therefore was his loss the more ; 
For though the creatures he had singled out 
His favorites, dared for him the fiery sword 
And followed after him, — shall bleat of lamb 
Console one for the foregone talk of God ? 
Or in the afternoon, his faithful dog, 
Fawning upon him, make his heart forget 
At such a time, and such a time, to have heard 
What he shall hear no more ? 

" O, as for him, 
It was for this that he full oft would stop, 
And, lost in thought, stand and revolve that deed, 
Sad muttering, ' Woman ! we reproach thee not ; 
Though thou didst eat mine immortality ; 
Earth, be not sorry ; I was free to choose. 
Wonder not, therefore, if he walked forlorn. 
5* 



ios 



106 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Was not the helpmeet given to raise him up 
From his contentment with the lower things ? 
Was she not somewhat that he could not rule 
Beyond the action, that he could not have 
By the mere holding, and that still aspired 
And drew him after her ? So, when deceived 
She fell by great desire to rise, he fell 
By loss of upward drawing, when she took 
An evil tongue to be her counsellor : 
' Death is not as the death of lower things, 
Rather a glorious change, begrudged of Heaven, 
A change to being as gods,' — he from her hand, 
Upon reflection, took of death that hour, 
And ate it (not the death that she had dared) ; 
He ate it knowing. Then divisions came. 
She, like a spirit strayed who lost the way, 
Too venturesome, among the farther stars, 
And hardly cares, because it hardly hopes 
To find the path to heaven ; in bitter wise 
Did bear to him degenerate seed, and he, 
Once having felt her upward drawing, longed, 
And yet aspired, and yearned to be restored, 
Albeit she drew no more." 

" Sir, ye speak well," 
Niloiya saith, " but yet the mother sits 
Higher than Adam. He did understand 
Discourse of birds and all four-footed things, 
But she had knowledge of the many tribes 
Of angels and their tongues ; their playful ways 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

And greetings when they met. Was she not wise ? 
They say she knew much that she never told, 
And had a voice that called to her as thou." 

" Nay/' quoth the Master-shipwright, " who am I 

That I should answer ? As for me, poor man, 

Here is my trouble : ' if there be a Voice/ 

At first I cried, ' let me behold the mouth 

That uttereth it.' Thereon it held its peace. 

But afterward, I, journeying up the hills, 

Did hear it hollower than an echo fallen 

Across some clear abyss ; and I did stop, 

And ask of all my company, ' What cheer ? 

If there be spirits abroad that call to us, 

Sirs, hold your peace and hear.' So they gave heed, 

And one man said, ' It is the small ground-cloves 

That peck upon the stony hillocks ' : one, 

1 It is the mammoth in yon cedar swamp 

That cheweth in his dream ' : and one, ' My lord, 

It is the ghost of him that yesternight 

We slew, because he grudged to yield his wife 

To thy great father, when he peaceably 

Did send to take her.' Then I answered, ' Pass,' 

And they went on ; and I did lay mine ear 

Close to the earth ; but there came up therefrom 

]So sound, nor any speech ; I waited long, 

And in the saying, ' I will mount my beast 

And on,' I was as one that in a trance 

Beholdeth what is coming, and I saw 



107 



108 A STORY OF DOOM, 

Great waters and a ship ; and somewhat spake, 
6 Lo, this shall be ; let him that heareth it, 
And seeth it, go forth to warn his kind, 
For I will drown the world.' " 

Niloiya saith, 
" Sir, was that all that ye went forth upon ? " 
The master, he replieth, " Ay, at first, 
That same was all ; but many days went by, 
While I did reason with my heart and hope 
For more, and struggle to remain, and think, 
' Let me be certain ' ; and so think again, 
6 The counsel is but dark ; would I had more ! 
When I have more to guide me, I will go.' 
And afterward, when reasoned on too much, 
It seemed remoter, then I only said, 
* 0, would I had the same again ' ; and still 
I had it not. 

" Then at the last I cried, 
6 If the unseen be silent, I will speak 
And certify my meaning to myself. 
Say that He spoke, then He will make that good 
Which He hath spoken. Therefore it were best 
To go, and do His bidding. All the earth 
Shall hear the judgment so, and none may cry 
When the doom falls, " Thou God art hard on us ; 
We knew not Thou wert angry. O ! we are lost, 
Only for lack of being warned." 

" < But say 
That He spoke not, and merely it befell 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

That I being weary had a dream. Why, so 

He could not suffer damage ; when the time 

Was past, and that I threatened had not come, 

Men would cry out on me, haply me kill, 

For troubling their content. They would not swear, 

" God, that did send this man, is proved untrue/' 

But rather, " Let him die ; he lied to us ; 

God never sent him." Only Thou, great King, 

Knowest if Thou didst speak or no. I leave 

The matter here. If Thou wilt speak again, 

I go in gladness ; if Thou wilt not speak, 

Nay, if Thou never didst, I not the less 

Shall go, because I have believed, what time 

I seemed to hear Thee, and the going stands 

With memory of believing.' Then I washed, 

And did array me in the sacred gown, 

And take a lamb." 

" Ay, sir," Niloiya sighed, 
" I following, and I knew not anything 
Till, the young lamb asleep in thy two arms, 
We, moving up among the silent hills, 
Paused in a grove to rest ; and many slaves 
Came near to make obeisance, and to bring 
Wood for the sacrifice, and turf and fire. 
Then in their hearing thou didst say to me, 
6 Behold, I know thy good fidelity, 
And theirs that are about us ; they would guard 
The mountain passes, if it were my will 
Awhile to leave thee ' ; and the pygmies laughed 



109 



IIO A STORY OF DOOM. 

For joy, that thou wouldst trust inferior things ; 

And put their heads down, as their manner is, 

To touch our feet. They laughed, but sore I wept ; 

Sir, I could weep now ; ye did ill to go 

If that was all your bidding ; I had thought 

God drave thee, and thou couldst not choose but go." 

Then said the son of Lamech, " Afterward, 
When I had left thee, He whom I bad served 
Met with me in the visions of the night, 
To comfort me for that I had withdrawn 
From thy dear company. He sware to me 
That no man should molest thee, no, nor touch 
The bordering of mine outmost field. I say, 
When I obeyed, He made His matters plain. 
With whom could I have left thee, but with them, 
Born in thy mother's house, and bound thy slaves ? " 

She said, " I love not pygmies ; they are naught." 

And he, " Who made them pygmies ? " Then she pushed 

Her veiling hair back from her round, soft eyes, 

And answered, wondering, " Sir, my mothers did 

Ye know it." And he drew her near to sit 

Beside him on the settle, answering, " Ay." 

And they went on to talk as writ below, 

If any one shall read : 

" Thy mother did, 
And they that went before her. Thinkest thou 
That they did well ? " 



A STORY OF DOOM. ni 

" They had been overcome ; 
And when the angered conquerors drave them out, 
Behoved them find some other way to rule, — 
They did but use their wits. Hath not man aye 
Been cunning in dominion, among beasts 
To breed for size or swiftness, or for sake 
Of the white wool he loveth, at his choice ? 
What harm if coveting a race of men 
That could but serve, they sought among their thralls, 
Such as were low of stature, men and maids ; 
Ay, and of feeble will and quiet mind ? 
Did they not spend much gear to gather out 
Such as I tell of, and for matching them 
One with another for a thousand years ? 
What harm, then, if there came of it a race, 
Inferior in their wits, and in their size, 
And well content to serve ? " 

" ' What harm ? ' thou sayest. 
My wife doth ask, ' What harm ? ' " 

" Your pardon, sir. 
I do remember that there came one day, 
Two of the grave old angels that God made, 
When first He invented life (right old they were, 
And plain, and venerable) ; and they said, 
Rebuking of my mother as with hers 
She sat, ' Ye do not well, you wives of men, 
To match your wit against the Maker's will, 
And for your benefit to lower the stamp 
Of His fair image, which He set at first 



112 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Upon man's goodly frame ; ye do not well 
To treat his likeness even as ye treat 
The bird and beast that perish.' " 

" Said they aught 
To appease the ancients, or to speak them fair ? " 

" How know I ? 'T was a slave that told it me. 
My mother was full old when I was born, 
And that was in her youth. What think you, sir ? 
Did not the giants likewise ill ? " 

" To that 
I have no answer ready. If a man, 
When each one is against his fellow, rule, 
Or unmolested dwell, or unreproved, 
Because, for size and strength, he standeth first, 
He will thereof be glad ; and if he say, 
6 1 will to wife choose me a stately maid, 
And leave a goodly offspring ' ; 'sooth, I think, 
He sinneth not ; for good to him and his 
He would be strong and great. Thy people's fault 
Was, that for ill to others, they did plot 
To make them weak and small." 

" But yet they steal 
Or take in war the strongest maids, and such 
As are of highest stature ; ay, and oft 
They fight among themselves for that same cause. . 
And they are proud against the King of heaven : 
They hope in course of ages they shall come 
To be as strong as He." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



113 



The Master said, 
" I will not hear thee talk thereof ; my heart 
Is sick for all this wicked world. Fair wife, 
I am right weary. Call thy slaves to thee, 
And bid that they prepare the sleeping place. 
O would that I might rest ! I fain would rest, 
And, no more wandering, tell a thankless world 
My never-heeded tale ! " 

With that she called. 
The moon was up, and some few stars were out, 
While heavy at the heart he walked abroad 
To meditate before his sleep. And yet 
Niloiya pondered, " Shall my master go ? 
And will my master go ? What 'vaileth it, 
That he doth spend himself, over the waste 
A wandering, till he reach outlandish folk, 
That mock his warning ? O, what 'vaileth it. 
That he doth lavish wealth to build yon ark, 
Whereat the daughters, when they eat with me, 
Laugh ? O my heart ! I would the Voice were stilled. 
Is not he happy ? Who, of all the earth, 
Obeyed like to me ? Have not I learned 
From his dear mouth to utter seemly words, 
And lay the powers my mother gave me by ? 
Have I made offerings to the dragon ? Nay, 
And I am faithful, when he leaveth me 
Lonely betwixt the peaked mountain tops 
In this long valley, where no stranger foot 
Can come without my will. He shall not go. 

H 



114 A ST0RY 0F DOOM. 

Not yet, not yet ! But three days — only three — 

Beside me, and a muttering on the third, 

c I have heard the Voice again.' Be dull, dull, 

Mind and remembrance ! Mother, ye did ill ; 

'T is hard unlawful knowledge not to use. 

Why, O dark mother ! opened ye the way ? " 

Yet when he entered, and did lay aside 

His costly robe of sacrifice, the robe 

Wherein he had been offering, ere the sun 

Went down ; forgetful of her mother's craft, 

She lovely and submiss did mourn to him : 

" Thou wilt not go, — I pray thee, do not go, 

Till thou hast seen thy children." And he said, 

" I will not. I have cried, and have prevailed : 

To-morrow it is given me by the Voice 

Upon a four days' journey to proceed, 

And follow down the river, till its waves 

Are swallowed in the sand, where no flesh dwells. 

" < There,' quoth the Unrevealed, c we shall meet, 

And I will counsel thee ; and thou shalt turn 

And rest thee with the mother, and with them 

She bare.' Now, therefore, when the morn appears, 

Thou fairest among women, call thy slaves, 

And bid them yoke the steers, and spread thy car 

With robes, the choicest work of cunning hands ; 

Array thee in thy rich apparel, deck 

Thy locks with gold ; and while the hollow vale 

I thread beside yon river, go thou forth 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Atween the mountains to my father's house, 

And let thy slaves make all obeisance due, 

And take and lay an offering at his feet. 

Then light, and cry to him, ' Great king, the son 

Of old Methuselah, thy son hath sent 

To fetch the growing maids, his children, home.' " 

" Sir," quoth the woman, " I will do this thing, 
So thou keep faith with me, and yet return. 
But will the Voice, think you, forbear to chide, 
'Nor that Unseen, who calleth, buffet thee, 
And drive thee on ? " 

He saith, " It will keep faith. 
Fear not. I have prevailed, for I besought. 
And lovingly it answered. I shall rest, 
And dwell with thee till after my three sons 
Come from the chase." She said, " I let them forth 
In fear, for they are young. Their slaves are few. 
The giant elephants be cunning folk ; 
They lie in ambush, and will draw men on 
To follow, — then will turn and tread them down." 
" Thy father's house unwisely planned," said he, 
" To drive them down upon the growing corn 
Of them that were their foes ; for now, behold, 
They suffer while the unwieldy beasts delay 
Retirement to their lands, and, meanwhile, pound 
The damp, deep meadows, to a pulpy mash ; 
Or wallowing in the waters foul them ; nay, 
Tread down the banks, and let them forth to flood 



US 



H6 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Their cities ; or, assailed and falling, shake 
The walls, and taint the wind, ere thirty men, 
Over the hairy terror piling stones 
Or earth, prevail to cover it." 

She said, 
" Husband, I have been sorry, thinking oft 
I would my sons were home ; but now sd well 
Methinks it is with me, that I am fain 
To wish they might delay, for thou wilt dwell 
With me till after they return, and thou 
Hast set thine eyes upon them. Then, — ah, me ! 
I must sit joyless in my place ; bereft, 
As trees that suddenly have dropped their leaves, 
And dark as nights that have no moon." 

She spake : 
The hope o' the world did hearken, but reply 
Made none. He left his hand on her fair locks 
As she lay sobbing ; and the quietness 
Of night began to comfort her, the fall 
Of far-off waters, and the winged wind 
That went among the trees. The patient hand, 
Moreover, that was steady, wrought with her, 
Until she said, " What wilt thou ? Nay, I know. 
I therefore answer what thou utterest not. 
Thou lovest me well, and not for thine own will 
Consentest to depart. What more ? Ay, this : 
I do avow that He which calleth thee, 
Hath right to call ; and I do swear, the Voice 
Shall have no let of me, to do Its ivitt" 



A STORY OF DOOM. nj 



BOOK II. 

N' OW ere the sunrise, while the morning star 
Hung yet behind the pine bough, woke and prayed 
The world's great shipwright, and his soul was glad 
Because the Voice was favorable. Now 
Began the tap o' the hammer, now ran forth 
The slaves preparing food. They therefore ate 
In peace together ; then Niloiya forth 
Behind the milk-white steers went on her way ; 
And the great Master-builder, down the course 
Of the long river, on his errand sped, 
And as he went, he thought : 

[They do not well 
Who, walking up a trodden path, all smooth 
"With footsteps of their fellows, and made straight 
From town to town, will scorn at them that wonn 
Under the covert of God's eldest trees 
(Such as He planted with His hand, and fed 
With dew before rain fell, till they stood close 
And awful ; drank the light up as it dropt, 
And kept the dusk of ages at their roots) ; 
They do not well who mock at such, and cry, 
" We peaceably, without or fault or fear, 
Proceed, and miss not of our end ; but these 
Are slow and fearful : with uncertain pace, 
And ever reasoning of the way, they oft, 



n8 



A STORY OF DOOM, 



After all reasoning, choose the worser course, 

And plunged in swamp, or in the matted growth 

Nigh smothered struggle, all to reach a goal 

Not worth their pains." Nor do they well whose work 

Is still to feed and shelter them and theirs. 

Get gain, and gathered store it, to think scorn 

Of those who work for a world (no wages paid 

By a Master hid in light), and sent alone 

To face a laughing multitude, whose eyes 

Are full of damaging pity, that forbears 

To tell the harmless laborer, " Thou art mad."] 



And as he went, he thought : " They counsel me, 

Ay, with a kind of reason in their talk, 

' Consider ; call thy soberer thought to aid ; 

Why to but one man should a message come ? 

And why, if but to one, to thee ? Art thou 

Above us, greater, wiser ? Had He sent, 

He had willed that we should heed. Then since He 

knoweth 
That such as thou, a wise man cannot heed, 
He did not send.' My answer, ' Great and wise, 
If He had sent with thunder, and a voice 
Leaping from heaven, ye must have heard ; but so 
Ye had been robbed of choice, and, like the beasts, 
Yoked to obedience. God makes no men slaves.' 
They tell me, ' God is great above thy thought : 
He meddles not : and this small world is ours, 
These many hundred years we govern it ; 



A STORY OF DOOM, 



II 9 



Old Adam, after Eden, saw Him not.' 

Then I, ' It may be He is gone to knead 

More clay. But look, my masters ; one of you 

Going to warfare, layeth up his gown, 

His sickle, cr his gold, and thinks no more 

Upon it, till young trees have waxen great ; 

At last, when he returneth, he will seek 

His own. And God, shall He not do the like ? 

And having set new worlds a-rolling, come 

And say, " I will betake Me to the earth 

That I did make " : and having found it vile, 

Be sorry. Why should man be free, you wise, 

And not the Master ? ' Then they answer, ' Fool ! 

A man shall cast a stone into the air 

For pastime, or for lack of heed, — but He ! 

Will He come fingering of His ended work, 

Fright it with His approaching face, or snatch 

One day the rolling wonder from its ring, 

And hold it quivering, as a wanton child 

Might take a nestling from its downy bed, 

And having satisfied a careless wish, 

Go thrust it back into its place again ? ' 

To such I answer, and, that doubt once mine, 

I am assured that I do speak aright : 

1 Sirs, the significance of this your doubt 

Lies in the reason of it ; ye do grudge 

That these your lands should have another Lord ; 

Ye are not loyal, therefore ye would fain 

Your King would bide afar. But if ye looked 




120 -4 STORY OF DOOM. 

For countenance and favor when He came, 
Knowing yourselves right worthy, would ye care, 
With cautious reasoning, deep and hard, to prove 
That He would never come, and would your wrath 
Be hot against a prophet? Nay, I wot 
That as a flatterer you would look on him, — 
" Full of sweet words thy mouth is : if He come, — 
We think not that He will, — but if He come, 
Would it might be to-morrow, or to-night, 
Because we look for praise." ' " 

Now, as he went, 
The noontide heats came on, and he grew faint ; 
But while he sat below an almug-tree, 
A slave approached with greeting. " Master, hail ! " 
He answered, " Hail ! what wilt thou ? " Then she said, 
" The palace of thy fathers standeth nigh." 
" I know it," quoth he ; and she said again, 
" The Elder, learning thou wouldst pass, hath sent 
To fetch thee " ; then he rose and followed her. 
So first they walked beneath a lofty roof 
Of living bough and tendril, woven on high 
To let no drop of sunshine through, and hung 
With gold and purple fruitage, and the white 
Thick cups of scented blossom. Underneath, 
Soft grew the sward and delicate, and flocks 
Of egrets, ay, and many cranes, stood up, 
Fanning their wings, to agitate and cool 
The noonday air, as men with heed and pains 
Had taught them, marshalling and taming them 
To bear the wind in, on their moving wings. 



A STORY OF DOOM. I2 i 

So long time as a nimble slave would spend 
In milking of her cow, they walked at ease ; 
Then reached the palace, all of forest trunks, 
Brought whole, and set together, made. Therein 
Had dwelt old Adam, when his mighty sons 
Had finished it, and up to Eden gate 
Had journeyed for to fetch him. " Here," they said, 
" Mother and father, ye may dwell, and here 
Forget the garden wholly." 

So he came 
Under the doorplace, and the women sat, 
Each with her finger on her lips ; but he, 
Having been called, went on, until he reached 
The jewelled settle, wrought with cunning work 
Of gold and ivory, whereon they wont 
To set the Elder. Ail with sleekest skins, 
That striped and spotted creatures of the wood 
Had worn, the seat was covered, but thereon 
The Elder was not ; by the steps thereof, 
Upon the floor, whereto his silver beard 
Did reach, he sat, and he was in his trance. 
Upon the settle many doves were perched, 
That set the air a going with their wings : 
These opposite, the world's great shipwright stood 
To wait the burden ; and the Elder spake : 
" Will He forget me ? Would He might forget ! 
Old, old ! The hope of old Methuselah 
Is all in His forgetfulness." With that, 
A slave-girl took a cup of wine, and crept 
6 



122 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Anear him, saying, " Taste " ; and when his lips 
Had touched it, lo, he trembled, and he cried, 
" Behold, I prophesy." 

Then straight they fled 
That were about him, and did stand apart 
And stop their ears. For he, from time to time, 
Was plagued with that same fate to prophesy, 
And spake against himself, against his day 
And time, in words that all men did abhor. 
Therefore, he warning them what time the fit 
Came on him, saved them, that they heard it not. 
So while they fled, he cried : " I saw the God 
Reach out of heaven His wonderful right hand. 
Lo, lo ! He dipped it in the unquiet sea, 
And in its curved palm behold the ark, 
As in a vast calm lake, came floating on. 
Ay, then, His other hand — the cursing hand — 
He took and spread between us and the sun, 
And all was black ; the day was blotted out, 
And horrible staggering took the frighted earth. 
I heard the water hiss, and then methinks 
The crack as of her splitting. Did she take 
Their palaces that are my brothers dear, 
And huddle them with all their ancientry 
Under into her breast ? If it was black, 
How could this old man see ? There was a noise 
I' the dark, and He drew back His hand again. 
I looked, — It was a dream, — let no man say 
It was aught else. There, so — the fit goes by. 



A STORY OF DOOM, 12 $ 

Sir, and my daughters, is it eventide ? — 

Sooner than that, saith old Methuselah, 

Let the vulture lay his beak to my green limbs. 

What ! art Thou envious ? — are the sons of men 

Too wise to please Thee, and to do Thy will ? 

Methuselah, he sitteth on the ground, 

Clad in his gown of age, the pale white gown, 

And goeth not forth to war ; his wrinkled hands 

He claspeth round his knees : old, very old. 

Would he could steal from Thee one secret more — 

The secret of Thy youth ! O, envious God ! 

We die. The words of old Methuselah 

And his prophecy are ended." 

Then the wives, 
Beholding how he trembled, and the maids 
And children, came anear, saying, " Who art thou 
That standest gazing on the Elder ? Lo, 
Thou dost not well : withdraw ; for it was thou 
Whose stranger presence troubled him, and brought 
The fit of prophecy." And he did turn 
To look upon them, and their majesty 
And glorious beauty took away his words ; 
And being pure among the vile, he cast 
In his thought a veil of snow-white purity 
Over the beauteous throng. " Thou dost not well," 
They said. He answered : " Blossoms o' the world, 
Fruitful as fair, never in watered glade, 
Where in the youngest grass blue cups push forth, 
And the white lily reareth up her head, 



124 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And purples cluster, and the saffron flower 
Clear as a flame of sacrifice breaks out, 
And every cedar bough, made delicate 
With climbing roses, drops in white and red, — • 
So I (good angels keep you in their care) 
So beautiful a crowd." 

With that, they stamped, 
Gnashed their white teeth, and turning, fled and spat 
Upon the floor. The Elder spake to him, 
Yet shaking with the burden, " Who art thou ? " 
He answered, " I, the man whom thou didst send 
To fetch through this thy woodland, do forbear 
To tell my name ; thou lovest it not, great sire, — 
No, nor mine errand. To thy house I spake, 
Touching their beauty." " Wherefore didst thou spite," 
Quoth he, " the daughters ? " and it seemed he lost 
Count of that prophecy, for very age, 
And from his thin lips dropt a trembling laugh. 
" Wicked old man," quoth he, " this wise old man 
I see as 't were not I. Thou bad old man, 
What shall be done to thee ? for thou didst burn 
Their babes, and strew the ashes all about, 
To rid the world of His white soldiers. Ay, 
Scenting of human sacrifice, they fled. 
Cowards ! I heard them winnow their great wings : 
They went to tell Him ; but they came no more. 
The women hate to hear of them, so sore 
They grudged their little ones ; and yet no way 
There was but that. I took it ; I did well." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



125 



With that he fell to weeping. " Son," said he, 

" Long have I hid mine eyes from stalwart men, 

For it is hard to lose the majesty 

And pride and power of manhood : but to-day, 

Stand forth into the light, that I may look 

Upon thy strength, and think, Evex thus did I, 

In the glory of my youth, more like to God 

Than like His soldiers, face the vassal world/' 

Then ISoah stood forward in his majesty, 

Shouldering the golden billhook, wherewithal 

He wont to cut his way, when tangled in 

The matted hayes. And down the opened roof 

Fell slanting beams upon his stately head, 

And streamed along his gown, and made to shine 

The jewelled sandals on his feet. 

And, lo, 
The Elder cried aloud : " I prophesy. 
Behold, my son is as a fruitful field 
When all the lands are waste. The archers drew, — 
They drew the bow against him ; they were fain 
To slay : but he shall live, — my son shall live, 
And I shall live by him in the other days. 
Behold the prophet of the Most High God : 
Hear him. Behold the hope 0' the world, what time 
She lieth under. Hear him ; he shall save 
A seed alive, and sow the earth with man. 
O, earth ! earth ! earth ! a floating shell of wood 
Shall hold the remnant of thy mighty lords, 



126 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Will this old man be in it ? Sir, and you 

My daughters, hear him ! Lo, this white old man 

He sitteth on the ground. (Let be, let be : 

Why dost Thou trouble us to make our tongue 

Ring with abhorred words ?) The prophecy 

Of the Elder, and the vision that he saw, 

They both are ended." 

Then said Noah : " The life 
Of this my lord is low for very age : 
Why then, with bitter words upon thy tongue, 
Father of Lamech, dost thou anger Him ? 
Thou canst not strive against Him now." He said : 
" Thy feet are toward the valley, where lie bones 
Bleaching upon the desert. Did I love 
The lithe strong lizards that I yoked and set 
To draw my car ? and were they not possessed ? 
Yea, all of them were liars. I loved them well. 
What did the Enemy, but on a day 
When I behind my talking team went forth, 
They sweetly lying, so that all men praised 
Their flattering tongues and mild persuasive eyes, — 
What did the Enemy but send His slaves, 
Angels, to cast down stones upon their heads 
And break them ? Nay, I could not stir abroad 
But havoc came ; they never crept or flew 
Beyond the shelter that I builded here. 
But straight the crowns I had set upon their heads 
Were marks for myrmidons that in the clouds 
Kept watch to crush them. Can a man forgive 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

That hath been warred on thus ? I will not. Nay, 

I swear it, — I, the man Methuselah." 

The Master-shipwright, he replied, " 'T is true, 

Great loss was that ; but they that stood thy friends, 

The wicked spirits, spoke upon their tongues, 

And cursed the God of heaven. What marvel, sir, 

If He was angered ? " But the Elder cried, 

" They all are dead, — the toward beasts I loved ; 

My goodly team, my joy, they all are dead ; 

Their bones lie bleaching in the wilderness : 

And I will keep my wrath for evermore 

Against the Enemy that slew them. Go, 

Thou coward servant of a tyrant King, 

Go down the desert of the bones, and ask, 

' My King, what bones are these ? Methuselah, 

The white old man that sitteth on the ground, 

Sendeth a message, " Bid them that they live, 

And let my lizards run up every path 

They wont to take when out of silver pipes, 

The pipes that Tubal wrought into my roof, 

I blew a sweeter cry than song-bird's throat 

Hath ever formed ; and while they laid their heads 

Submiss upon my threshold, poured away 

Music that welled by heartsful out, and made 

The throats of men that heard to swell, their breasts 

To heave with the joy of grief; yea, caused the lips 

To laugh of men asleep. 

Return to me 
The great wise lizards ; ay, and them that flew 



127 



128 A STORY OF DOOM. 

My pursuivants before me. Let me yoke 

Again that multitude ; and here I swear 

That they shall draw my car and me thereon 

Straight to the ship of doom. So men shall know 

My loyalty, that I submit, and Thou 

Shalt yet have honor, mine Enemy, 

By me. The speech of old Methuselah." ' n 

Then Noah made answer, " By the living God, 

That is no enemy to men, great sire, 

I will not take thy message ; hear thou Him. 

1 Behold (He saith that suffereth thee), behold, 

The earth that I made green cries out to Me, 

Red with the costly blood of beauteous man. 

I am robbed, I am robbed (He saith) ; they sacrifice 

To evil demons of My blameless flocks, 

That I did fashion with My hand. Behold, 

How goodly was the world ! I gave it thee 

Fresh from its finishing. What hast thou done ? 

I will cry out to the waters, Cover it, 

And hide it from its Father, Lo, Mine eyes 

Turn from it shamed' " 

With that the old man laughed 
Full softly. " Ay," quoth he, " a goodly world, 
And we have done with it as we did list. 
Why did He give it us ? Nay, look you, son : 
Five score they were that died in yonder waste ; 
And if He crieth, ' Repent, be reconciled,' 
I answer, ' Nay, my lizards'; and again, 
If He will trouble me in this mine age, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



129 



t Why hast Thou slain my lizards ? ' Now my speech 

Is cut away from all my other words, 

Standing alone. The Elder sweareth it, 

The man of many days, Methuselah." 

Then answered Noah, " My Master, hear it not ; 

But yet have patience " ; and he turned himself, 

And down betwixt the ordered trees went forth, 

And in the light of evening made his way 

Into the waste to meet the Voice of God. 



6* 



130 A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK III. 

ABOVE the head of great Methuselah 
There lay two demons in the opened roof 
Invisible, and gathered up his words ; 
For when the Elder prophesied, it came 
About, that hidden things were shown to them, 
And burdens that he spake against his time. 

(But never heard them, such as dwelt with him ; 
Their ears they stopped, and willed to live at ease 
In all delight ; and perfect in their youth, 
And strong, disport them in the perfect world.) 

Now these were fettered that they could not fly, 

For a certain disobedience they had wrought 

Against the ruler of their host ; but not 

The less they loved their cause ; and when the feet 

O' the Master-builder were no longer heard, 

They, slipping to the sward, right painfully 

Did follow, for the one to the other said, 

" Behoves our master know of this ; and us, 

Should he be favorable, he may loose 

From these our bonds." 

And thus it came to pass, 
That while at dead of night the old dragon lay 
Coiled in the cavern where he dwelt, the watch 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Pacing before it saw in middle air 
A boat, that gleamed like fire, and on it came, 
And rocked as it drew near, and then it burst 
And went to pieces, and there fell therefrom, 
Close at the cavern's mouth, two glowing balls. 

Now there was drawn a curtain nigh the mouth 
Of that deep cave, to testify of wrath. 
The dragon had been wroth with some that served, 
And chased them from him ; and his oracles, 
That wont to drop from him, were stopped, and men 
Might only pray to him through that fell web 
That hung before him. Then did whisper low 
Some of the little spirits that bat-like clung 
And clustered round the opening. " Lo," they said, 
While gazed the watch upon those glowing balls, 
" These are like moons eclipsed ; but let them lie 
Red on the moss, and sear its dewy spires, 
Until our lord give leave to draw the web, 
And quicken reverence by his presence dread, 
For he will know and call to them by name, 
And they will change. At present he is sick, 
And wills that none disturb him." So they lay, 
And there was silence, for the forest tribes 
Came never near that cave. "Wiser than men, 
They fled the serpent hiss that oft by night 
Came forth of it, and feared the wan dusk forms 
That stalked among the trees, and in the dark 
Those whitfs of flame that wandered up the sky 



131 



1 32 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And made the moonlight sickly. 

Now, the cave 
Was marvellous for beauty, wrought with tools 
Into the living rock, for there had worked 
All cunning men, to cut on it with signs 
And shows, yea, all the manner of mankind. 
The fateful apple-tree was there, a bough 
Bent with the weight of him that us beguiled ; 
And lilies of the field did seem to blow 
And bud in the storied stone. There Tubal sat, 
Who from his harp delivered music, sweet 
As any in the spheres. Yea, more ; 
Earth's latest wonder, on the walls appeared, 
Unfinished, workmen clustering on its ribs ; 
And farther back, within the rock hewn out, 
Angelic figures stood, that impious hands 
Had fashioned ; many golden lamps they held 
By golden chains depending, and their eyes 
All tended in a reverend quietude 
Toward the couch whereon the dragon lay. 
The floor was beaten gold ; the curly lengths 
Of his last coils lay on it, hid from sight 
With a coverlet made stiff with crusting gems, 
Fire opals shooting, rubies, fierce bright eyes 
Of diamonds, or the pale green emerald, 
That changed their lustre when he breathed. 

His head 
Feathered with crimson combs, and all his neck, 
And half-shut fans of his admired wings, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

That in their scaly splendor put to shame 
Or gold or stone, lay on his ivory couch 
And shivered ; for the dragon suffered pain : 
He suffered and he feared. It was his doom, 
The tempter, that he never should depart 
From the bright creature that in Paradise 
He for his evil purpose erst possessed, 
Until it died. Thus only, spirit of might 
And chiefest spirit of ill, could he be free. 

But with its nature wed, as souls of men 
Are wedded to their clay, he took the dread 
Of death and dying, and the coward heart 
Of the beast, and craven terrors of the end 
Sank him that habited within it to dread 
Disunion. He, a dark dominion erst 
Eebellious, lay and trembled, for the flesh 
Daunted his immaterial. He was sick 
And sorry. Great ones of the earth had sent 
Their chief musicians for to comfort him, 
Chanting his praise, the friend of man, the god 
That gave them knowledge, at so great a price 
And costly. Yea, the riches of the mine, 
And glorious broidered work, and woven gold, 
And all things wisely made, they at his feet 
Laid daily ; for they said, " This mighty one, 
All the world wonders after him. He lieth 
Sick in his dwelling ; he hath long foregone 
(To do us good) dominion, and a throne, 



133 



134 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And his -brave warfare with the Enemy, 

So much he pitieth us that were denied 

The gain and gladness of this knowledge. Now 

Shall he be certified of gratitude, 

And smell the sacrifice that most he loves." 

The night was dark, but every lamp gave forth 
A tender, lustrous beam. His beauteous wings 
The dragon fluttered, cursed awhile, then turned 
And moaned with lamentable voice, " I thirst, 
Give me to drink." Thereon stepped out in haste, 
From inner chambers, lovely ministrants, 
Young boys, with radiant locks and peaceful eyes, 
And poured out liquor from their cups, to cool 
His parched tongue, and kneeling held it nigh 
In jewelled basins sparkling ; and he lapped, 
And was appeased, and said, " I will not hide 
Longer, my much desired face from men. 
Draw back the web of separation." Then 
With cries of gratulation ran they forth, 
And flung it wide, and all the watch fell low, 
Each on his face, as drunk with sudden joy. 
Thus marked he, glowing on the branched moss, 
Those red rare moons, and let his serpent eyes 
Consider them full subtly, " What be these ? " 
Enquiring : and the little spirits said, 
" As we for thy protection (having heard 
That wrathful sons of darkness walk to-night, 
Such as do oft ill use us), clustered here, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

We marked a boat a-fire that sailed the skies, 
And furrowed up like spray a billowy cloud, 
And, lo, it went to pieces, scattering down 
A rain of sparks and these two angry moons." 
Then said the dragon, " Let my guard, and you, 
Attendant hosts, recede " ; and they went back, 
And formed about the cave a widening ring, 
Then halting, stood afar ; and from the cave 
The snaky wonder spoke, with hissing tongue, 
" If ye were Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Be Tartis and Deleisonon once more." 

Then egg-like cracked the glowing bails, and forth 
Started black angels, trampling hard to free 
Their fettered feet from out the smoking shell. 

And he said, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 

Your lord I am : draw nigh." " Thou art our lord," 

They answered, and with fettered limbs full low 

They bent, and made obeisance. Furthermore, 

" fiery flying serpent, after whom 

The nations go, let thy dominion last," 

They said, " forever." And the serpent said, 

" It shall : unfold your errand." They replied, 

One speaking for a space, and afterward 

His fellow taking up the word with fear 

And panting, " We were set to watch the mouth 

Of great Methuselah. There came to him 

The son of Lamech two days since. My lord, 



135 



136 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

They prophesied, the Elder prophesied, 

Unwitting, of the flood of waters, — ay, 

A vision was before him, and the lands 

Lay under water drowned : he saw the ark, — 

It floated in the Enemy's right hand." 

Lord of the lost, the son of Lamech fled 

Into the wilderness to meet His voice 

That reigneth ; and we, diligent to hear 

Aught that might serve thee, followed, but, forbid 

To enter, lay upon its boundary cliff, 

And wished for morning. 

" When the dawn was red, 
We sought the man, we marked him ; and he prayed, — 
Kneeling, he prayed in the valley, and he said — " 
" Nay," quoth the serpent, " spare me, what devout 
He fawning grovelled to the All-powerful ; 
But if of what shall hap he aught let fall, 
Speak that." They answered, " He did pray as one 
That looketh to outlive mankind, — and more, 
We are certified by all his scattered words, 
That He will take from men their length of days, 
And cut them off like grass in its first flower : 
From henceforth this shall be." 

That when he heard, 
The dragon made to the night his moan. 

" And more," 
They said, " that He above would have men know 
That He doth love them, whoso will repent, 
To that man he is favorable, yea, 



A STORY OF DOOM. I37 

Will be his loving Lord." 

The dragon cried, 
" The last is worse than all. O, man, thy heart 
Is stout against His wrath. But will He love ? 
I heard it rumored in the heavens of old, 
(And doth He love ?) Thou wilt not, canst not, stand 
Against the love of God. Dominion fails ; 
I see it float from me, that long have worn 
Fetters of flesh to win it. Love of God ! 
I cry against thee ; thou art worse than all." 
They answered, " Be not moved, admired chief 
And trusted of mankind " ; and they went on, 
And fed him with the prophecies that fell 
From the Master-shipwright in his prayer. 

But prone 
He lay, for he was sick : at every word 
Prophetic cowering. As a bruising blow, 
It fell upon his head and daunted him, 
Until they ended, saying, " Prince, behold, 
Thy servants have revealed the whole." 

Thereon 
He out of snaky lips did hiss forth thanks. 
Then said he, " Tartis and Deleisonon, 
Receive your wages." So their fetters fell ; 
And they retiring, landed him, and cried, 
" King, reign forever." Then he mourned, "Amen." 

And he, — being left alone, — he said : " A light ! 
I see a light, — a star among the trees, — 



138 A STORY OF DOOM. 

An angel." And it drew toward the cave, 

But with its sacred feet touched not the grass, 

Nor lifted up the lids of its pure eyes, 

But hung a span's length from that ground pollute, 

At the opening of the cave. 

And when he looked, 
The dragon cried, " Thou newly-fashioned thing, 
Of name unknown, thy scorn becomes thee not. 
Doth not thy Master suffer what thine eyes 
Thou countest all too clean to open on?" 
But still it hovered, and the quietness 
Of holy heaven was on the drooping lids ; 
And not as one that answereth, it let fall 
The music from its mouth, but like to one 
That doth not hear, or, hearing, doth not heed. 

" A message : i I have heard thee, while remote 
I went My rounds among the unfinished stars.' 
A message : ' I have left thee to thy ways, 
And mastered all thy vileness, for thy hate 
I have made to serve the ends of My great love. 
Hereafter will I chain thee down. To-day 
One thing thou art forbidden ; now thou knowest 
The name thereof: I told it thee in heaven, 
When thou wert sitting at My feet. Forbear 
To let that hidden thing be whispered forth : 
For man, ungrateful (and thy hope it was, 
That so ungrateful he might prove), would scorn, 
And not believe it, adding so fresh weight 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Of condemnation to the doomed world. 
Concerning that, thou art forbid to speak ; 
Know thou didst count it, falling from My tongue, 
A lovely song, whose meaning was unknown, 
Unknowable, unbearable to thought, 
But sweeter in the hearing than all harps 
Toned in My holy hollow. Now thine ears 
Are opened, know it, and discern and fear, 
Forbearing speech of it for evermore.' " 

So said, it turned, and with a cry of joy, 
As one released, went up : and it was dawn, 
And all boughs dropped with dew, and out of mist 
Came the red sun and looked into the cave. 

But the dragon, left a-tremble, called to him, 

From the nether kingdom, certain of his friends, — 

Three whom he trusted, councillors accursed. 

A thunder-cloud stooped low and swathed the place 

In its black swirls, and out of it they rushed, 

And hid them in recesses of the cave, 

Because they could not look upon the sun, 

Sith light is pure. And Satan called to them, — 

All in the dark, in his great rage he spake : 

" Up," quoth the dragon ; " it is time to work, 

Or we are all undone." And he did hiss, 

And there came shudderings over land and trees, 

A dimness after dawn. The earth threw out 

A blinding fog, that crept toward the cave, 



139 



140 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And rolled up blank before it like a veil, — 
A curtain to conceal its habiters. 
Then did those spirits move upon the floor, 
Like pillars of darkness, and with eyes aglow. 
One had a helm for covering of the scars 
That seamed what rested of a goodly face ; 
He wore his vizor up, and all his words 
Were hollower than an echo from the hills : 
He was hight Make. And, lo, his fellow-fiend 
Came after, holding down his dastard head, 
Like one ashamed : now this for craft was great ; 
The dragon honored him. A third sat down 
Among them, covering with his wasted hand 
Somewhat that pained his breast. 

And when the fit 
Of thunder, and the sobbings of the wind, 
Were lulled, the dragon spoke with wrath and rage, 
And told them of his matters : " Look to this, 
If ye be loyal " ; adding, " Give your thoughts, 
And let me have your counsel in this need." 

One spirit rose and spake, and all the cave 

Was full of sighs, " The words of Make the Prince, 

Of him once delegate in Betelgeux : 

Whereas of late the manner is to change, 

We know not where 't will end ; and now my words 

Go thus : give way, be peaceable, lie still 

And strive not, else the world that we have won 

He may, to drive us out, reduce to naught. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

" For while I stood in mine obedience yet, 
Steering of Betelgeux my sun, behold, 
A moon, that evil ones did fill, rolled up 
Astray, and suddenly the Master came, 
And while, a million strong, like rooks they rose, 
He took and broke it, flung it here and there, 
And called a blast to drive the powder forth ; 
And it was fine as dust, and blurred the skies 
Farther than 't is from hence to this young sun. 
Spirits that passed upon their work that day, 
Cried out, ' How dusty 't is.' Behoves us, then 9 
That we depart, as leaving unto Him 
This goodly world and goodly race of man. 
Not all are doomed ; hereafter it may be 
That we find place on it again. But if, 
Too zealous to preserve it, and the men 
Our servants, we oppose Him, He may come 
And choosing rather to undo His work 
Than strive with it for aye, make so an end." 

He sighing paused. Lo, then the serpent hissed 

In impotent rage, " Depart ! and how depart ! 

Can flesh be carried down where spirits wonn ? 

Or I, most miserable, hold my life 

Over the airless, bottomless gulf, and bide 

The buffe tings of yonder shoreless sea ? 

O death, thou terrible doom : O death, thou dread 

Of all that breathe." 

A spirit rose and spake ; 



141 



142 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



" Whereas in Heaven is power, is much to fear ; 
For this admired country we have marred. 
Whereas in Heaven is love (and there are days 
When yet I can recall what love was like), 
Is naught to fear. A threatening makes the whole, 
And clogged with strong conditions : ' 0, repent, 
Man, and I turn.' He, therefore, powerful now, 
And more so, master, that ye bide in clay, 
Threateneth that He may save. They shall not die." 

The dragon said, " I tremble, I am sick." 

He said with pain of heart, " How am I fallen ! 

For I keep silence ; yea, I have withdrawn 

From haunting of His gates, and shouting up 

Defiance. Wherefore doth He hunt me out 

From this small world, this little one, that I 

Have been content to take unto myself, 

I here being loved and worshipped ? He knoweth 

How much I have foregone ; and must He stoop 

To whelm the world, and heave the floors o' the deep, 

Of purpose to pursue me from my place ? 

And since I gave men knowledge, must He take 

Their length of days whereby they perfect it ? 

So shall He scatter all that I have stored, 

And get them by degrading them. I know 

That in the end it is appointed me 

To fade. I will not fade before the time." 

A spirit rose, the third, a spirit ashamed 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

And subtle, and his face he turned aside : 

" Whereas," said he, u we strive against both power 

And love, behoves us that we strive aright. 

Now some of old my comrades, yesterday 

I met, as they did journey to appear 

In the Presence ; and I said, ; My master lieth 

Sick yonder, otherwise (for no decree 

There stands against it) he would also come 

And make obeisance with the sons of God.' 

They answered, naught denying. Therefore, lord, 

'T is certain that ye have admittance yet ; 

And what doth hinder ? Nothing but this breath. 

Were it not well to make an end, and die, 

And gain admittance to the King of kings ? 

What if thy slaves by thy consent should take 

And bear thee on their wings above the earth, 

And suddenly let fall, — how soon 't were o'er ! 

We should have fear and sinking at the heart ; 

But in a little moment we should see, 

Rising majestic from a ruined heap, 

The stately spirit that we served of yore." 

The serpent turned his subtle deadly eyes 

Upon the spirit, and hissed ; and sick with shame, 

It bowed itself together, and went back 

With hidden face. " This counsel is not good," 

The other twain made answer ; " look, ray lord, 

Whereas 't is evil in thine eyes, in ours 

'T is evil also ; speak, for we perceive 



143 



144 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



That on thy tongue the words of counsel sit, 

Ready to fly to our right greedy ears, 

That long for them." And Satan, flattered thus 

(Forever may the serpent kind be charmed, 

With soft sweet words, and music deftly played), 

Replied, " Whereas I surely rule the world, 

Behoves that ye prepare for me a path, 

And that I, putting of my pains aside, 

Go stir rebellion in the mighty hearts 

O' the giants ; for He loveth them, and looks 

Full oft complacent on their glorious strength. 

He willeth that they yield, that He may spare ; 

But, by the blackness of my loathed den, 

I say they shall not, no, they shall not yield ; 

Go, therefore, take to you some harmless guise, 

And spread a rumor that I come. I, sick, 

Sorry, and aged, hasten. I have heard 

Whispers that out of heaven dropped unaware. 

I caught them up, and sith they bode men harm, 

I am ready for to comfort them ; yea, more, 

To counsel, and I will that they drive forth 

The women, the abhorred of my soul ; 

Let not a woman breathe where I shall pass, 

Lest the curse falleth, and she bruise my head. 

Friends, if it be their mind to send for me 

An army, and triumphant draw me on 

In the golden car ye wot of, and with shouts, 

I would not that ye hinder them. Ah, then 

Will I make hard their hearts, and grieve Him sore, 



A STORY OF DOOM. ^ 

That loves them, 0, by much too well to wet 
Their stately heads, and soil those locks of strength 
Under the fateful brine. Then afterward, 
While He doth reason vainly with them, I 
Will offer Him a pact : ' Great King, a pact, 
And men shall worship Thee, I say they shall, 
For I will bid them do it, yea, and leave 
To sacrifice their kind, so Thou my name 
Wilt suffer to be worshipped after Thine.' " 

" Yea, my lord Satan," quoth they, " do this thing, 
And let us hear thy words, for they are sweet." 

Then he made answer, " By a messenger 

Have I this day been warned. There is a deed 

I may not tell of, lest the people add 

Scorn to a Coming Greatness to their faults. 

Why this ? Who careth when about to slay, 

And slay indeed, how well they have deserved 

Death, whom he slayeth ? Therefore yet is hid 

A meaning of some mercy that will rob 

The nether world. Now look to it, — 'T were vain 

Albeit this deluge He would send indeed, 

That we expert the harvest ; He would yet 

Be the Master-reaper ; for I heard it said, 

They that be young and know Him not, and they 

That are bound and may not build, yea, more, their wives, 

Whom, suffering not to hear the doom, they keep 

Joyous behind the curtains, every one 

7 j 



146 A STORY OF DOOM. 

With maidens nourished in the house, and babes 

And children at her knees, — (then what remain !) 

He claimeth and will gather for His own. 

Now, therefore, it were good by guile to work, 

Princes, and suffer not the doom to fall. 

There is no evil like to love. I heard 

Him whisper it. Have I put on this flesh 

To ruin his two children beautiful, 

And shall my deed confound me in the end ? 

Through awful imitation ? Love of God, 

I cry against thee ; thou art worst of all." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK IV. 



147 



N^ OW while these evil ones took counsel strange, 
The son of Lamech journeyed home ; and, lo ! 
A company came down, and struck the track 
As he did enter it. There rode in front 
Two horsemen, young and noble, and behind 
Were following slaves with tent gear ; others led 
Strong horses, others bare the instruments 
O' the chase, and in the rear dull camels lagged, 
Sighing, for they were burdened, and they loved 
The desert sands above that grassy vale. 



And as they met, those horsemen drew the rein, 
And fixed on him their grave untroubled eyes ; 
He in his regal grandeur walked alone, 
And had nor steed nor follower, and his mien 
Was grave and like to theirs. He said to them, 
" Fair sirs, whose are ye ? " They made answer cold, 
" The beautiful woman, sir, our mother dear, 
Niloiya, bear us to great Lamech's son." 
And he, replying, " I am he." They said, 
" We know it, sir. We have remembered you 
Through many seasons. Pray you let us not ; 
We fain would greet our mother." And they made 
Obeisance and passed on ; then all their train, 
Which while they spoke had halted, moved apace, 



148 A STORY OF DOOM. 

And, while the silent father stood, went by, 
He gazing after, as a man that dreams ; 
For he was sick with their cold, quiet scorn, 
That seemed to say, " Father, we own you not, 
We love you not, for you have left us long, — 
So long, we care not that you come again." 

And while the sullen camels moved, he spake 

To him that led the last, " There are but two 

Of these my sons ; but where doth Japhet ride ? 

For I would see him." And the leader said, 

" Sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up 

Along the track. Afore the noonday meal 

The young men, even our masters, bathed ; (there grows 

A clump of cedars by the bend of yon 

Clear river) — there did Japhet, after meat, 

Being right weary, lay him down and sleep. 

There, with a company of slaves and some 

Few camels, ye shall find him." 

And the man 

The father of these three, did let him pass, 

And struggle and give battle to his heart, 

Standing as motionless as pillar set 

To guide a wanderer in a pathless waste ; 

But all his strength went from him, and he strove 

Vainly to trample out and trample down 

The misery of his love unsatisfied, — 

Unutterable love flung in his face. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Then he broke out in passionate words, that cried 
Against his lot, " I have lost my own, and won 
None other ; no, not one ! Alas, my sons ! 
That I have looked to for my solacing, 
In the bitterness to come. My children dear ! " 
And when from his own lips he heard those words, 
With passionate stirring of the heart, he wept. 

And none came near to comfort him. His face 

Was on the ground ; but, having wept, he rose 

Full hastily, and urged his way to find 

The river ; and in hollow of his hand 

Raised up the water to his brow : " This son, 

This other son of mine," he said, " shall see 

No tears upon my face." And he looked on, 

Beheld the camels, and a group of slaves 

Sitting apart from some one fast asleep, 

Where they had spread out webs of broidery work 

Under a cedar-tree ; and he came on, 

And when they made obeisance he declared 

His name, and said, " I will beside my son 

Sit till he wakeneth." So Japhet lay 

A-dreaming, and his father drew to him. 

He said, " This cannot scorn me yet"; and paused, 

Right angry with himself, because the youth, 

Albeit of stately growth, so languidly 

Lay with a listless smile upon his mouth, 

That was full sweet and pure ; and as he looked, 

He half forgot his trouble in his pride. 



149 



ISO 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



" And is this mine ? " said he, " my son ! mine own ! 

(God, thou art good !) O, if this turn away, 

That pang shall be past bearing. I must think 

That all the sweetness of his goodly face 

Is copied from his soul. How beautiful 

Are children to their fathers ! Son, my heart 

Is greatly glad because of thee ; my life 

Shall lack of no completeness in the days 

To come. If I forget the joy of youth. 

In thee shall I be comforted ; ay, see 

My youth, a dearer than my own again." 

And when he ceased, the youth, with sleep content, 
Murmured a little, turned himself and woke. 

He woke, and opened on his father's face 

The darkness of his eyes ; but not a word 

The Master-shipwright said, — his lips were sealed ; 

He was not ready, for he feared to see 

This mouth curl up with scorn. And Japhet spoke, 

Full of the calm that cometh after sleep : 

" Sir, I have dreamed of you. I pray you, sir, 

What is your name ? " and even with his words 

His countenance changed. The son of Lamech said, 

« Why art thou sad ? What have I done to thee ? " 

And Japhet answered, " O, methought I fled 

In the wilderness before a maddened beast, 

And you came up and slew it ; and I thought 

You were my father ; but I fear me, sir, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

My thoughts were vain." "With that his father said, 
" Whate'er of blessing Thou reserv'st for me, 
God ! if Thou wilt not give to both, give here : 
Bless him with both Thy hands " ; and laid his own 
On Japhet's head. 

Then Japhet looked on him, 
Made quiet by content, and answered low. 
With faltering laughter, glad and reverent : " Sir, 
You are my father ? " " Ay," quoth he, " I am ! 
Kiss me, my son ; and let me hear my name, 
My much desired name, from your dear lips." 

Then after, rested, they betook them home : 

And Japhet, walking by the Master, thought, 

" I did not will to love this sire of mine ; 

But now I feel as if I had always known 

And loved him well ; truly, I see not why, 

But I would rather serve him than go free 

With my two brethren." And he said to him, 

" Father ! " — who answered, " I am here, my son." 

And Japhet said, " I pray you, sir, attend 

To this my answer : let me go with you, 

For, now I think on it, I do not love 

The chase, nor managing the steed, nor yet 

The arrows and the bow ; but rather you, 

For all you do and say, and you yourself, 

Are goodly and delightsome in mine eyes. 

I pray you, sir, when you go forth again, 

That I may also go." And he replied, 



151 



152 A STORY OF DOOM. 

" I will tell thy speech unto the Highest ; He 
Shall answer it. But I would speak to thee 
Now of the days to come. Know thou, most dear 
To this thy father, that the drenched world, 
"When risen clean washed from water, shall receive 
From thee her lordliest governors, from thee 
Daughters of noblest soul." 

So Japhet said, 
" Sir, I am young, but of my mother straight 
I will go ask a wife, that this may be. 
I pray you, therefore, as the manner is 
Of fathers, give me land that I may reap 
Corn for sustaining of my wife, and bruise 
The fruit of the vine to cheer her." But he said, 
" Dost thou forget ? or dost thou not believe, 
My son ? " He answered, " I did ne'er believe, 
My father, ere to-day ; but now, methinks, 
Whatever thou believest I believe, 
For thy beloved sake. If this then be 
As thou (I hear) hast said, and earth doth bear 
The last of her wheat harvests, and make ripe 
The latest of her grapes ; yet hear me, sir, 
None of the daughters shall be given to me 
If I be landless." Then his father said, 
" Lift up thine eyes toward the north, my son " 
And so he did. " Behold thy heritage ! " 
Quoth the world's prince and master, " far away 
Upon the side o' the north, where green the field 
Lies every season through, and where the dews 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Of heaven are -wholesome, shall thy children reign ; 

I part it to them, for the earth is mine ; 

The Highest gave it me : I make it theirs. 

Moreover, for thy marriage gift, behold 

The cedars where thou sleepedst ! There are vines ; 

And up the rise is growing wheat. I give 

(For all, alas ! is mine), — I give thee both 

For dowry, and my blessing." 

And he said, 
" Sir, you are good, and therefore the Most High 
Shall bless me also. Sir, I love you well." 



153 



7* 



iS4 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK V. 



AND when two days were over, Japhet said, 
" Mother, so please you, get a wife for me/' 
The mother answered, " Dost thou mock me, son ? 
? T is not the manner of our kin to wed 
So young. Thou knowest it ; art thou not ashamed ? 
Thou carest not for a wife." And the youth blushed, 
And made for answer : " This, my father, saith 
The doom is nigh ; now therefore find a maid, 
Or else shall I be wifeless all my days. 
And as for me, I care not ; but the lands 
Are parted, and the goodliest share is mine. 
And lo ! my brethren are betrothed ; their maids 
Are with thee in the house. Then why not mine ? 
Didst thou not diligently search for these 
Among the noblest born of all the earth, 
And bring them up ? My sisters, dwell they not 
With women that bespake them for their sons ? 
Now, therefore, let a wife be found for me, 
Fair as the day, and gentle to my will 
As thou art to my father's." When she heard, 
Niloiya sighed, and answered, " It is well." 
And Japhet went out from her presence. 

Then 
Quoth the great Master : " Wherefore sought ye not, 
Woman, these many days, nor tired at all, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Till ye had found, a maiden for my son ? 

In this ye have done ill." Niloiya said : 

" Let not my lord be angry. All my soul 

Is sad : my lord hath walked afar so long, 

That some despise thee ; yea, our servants fail 

Lately to bring their stint of corn and wood. 

And, sir, thy household slaves do steal away 

To thy great father, and our lands lie waste, — 

None till them : therefore think the women scorn 

To give me, — whatsoever gems I send, 

And goodly raiment, — (yea, I seek afar, 

And sue with all desire and humbleness 

Through every master's house, but no one gives) — 

A daughter for my son." With that she ceased. 

Then said the Master : " Some thou hast with thee, 

Brought up among thy children, dutiful 

And fair ; thy father gave them for my slaves, — 

Children of them whom, he brought captive forth 

From their own heritage." And she replied, 

Eight scornfully : " Shall Japhet wed a slave ? " 

Then said the Master : " He shall wed : look thou 

To that. I say not he shall wed a slave ; 

But by the might of One that made him mine, 

I will not quit thee for my doomed way 

Until thou wilt betroth him. Therefore, haste, 

Beautiful woman, loved of me and mine, 

To bring a maiden, and to say, ' Behold 

A wife for Japhet.' " Then she answered, " Sir, 



155 



156 A STORY OF DOOM. 

It shall be done." 

And forth Niloiya sped. 
She gathered all her jewels, — all she held 
Of costly or of rich, — and went and spake 
With some few slaves that yet abode with her, 
For daily they were fewer ; and went forth, 
With fair and flattering words, among her feres, 
And fain had wrought with them : and she had hope 
That made her sick, it was so faint ; and then 
She had fear, and after she had certainty, 
For all did scorn her. " Nay," they cried, " fool ! 
If this be so, and on a watery world 
Ye think to rock, what matters if a wife 
Be free or bond ? There shall be none to rule, 
If she have freedom : if she have it not, 
None shall there be to serve." 

And she alit, 
The time being done, desponding at her door, 
And went behind a screen, where should have wrought 
The daughters of the captives ; but there wrought 
One only, and this rose from off the floor, 
Where she the river rush full deftly wove, 
And made obeisance. Then Niloiya said, 
" Where are thy fellows ? " And the maid replied, 
" Let not Niloiya, this my lady loved, 
Be angry ; they are fled since yesternight." 
Then said Niloiya, " Amarant, my slave, 
When have I called thee by thy name before ? " 
She answered, " Lady, never " ; and she took 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

And spread her broidered robe before her face. 

Niloiya spoke thus : "lam come to woe, 

And thou to honor." Saying this, she wept 

Passionate tears ; and all the damsel's soul 

"Was full of yearning wonder, and her robe 

Slipped from her hand, and her right innocent face 

Was seen betwixt her locks of tawny hair 

That dropped about her knees, and her two eyes, 

Blue as the much-loved flower that rims the beck, 

Looked sweetly on Niloiya ; but she knew 

No meaning in her words ; and she drew nigh, 

And kneeled and said, " Will this my lady speak ? 

Her damsel is desirous of her words." 

Then said Niloiya, " I, thy mistress, sought 

A wife for Japhet, and no wife is found." 

And yet again she wept with grief of heart, 

Saying, " Ah me, miserable ! I must give 

A wife : the Master willeth it : a wife, 

Ah me ! unto the high-born. He will scorn 

His mother and reproach me. I must give — 

None else have I to give — a slave, — even thee." 

This further spake Niloiya : " I was good, — 

Had rue on thee, a tender sucking child, 

When they did tear thee from thy mother's breast ; 

I fed thee, gave thee shelter, and I taught 

Thy hands all cunning arts that women prize. 

But out on me ! my good is turned to ill. 

O, Japhet, well-beloved ! " And she rose up, 

And did restrain herself, saying, " Dost thou heed ? 



157 



158 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Behold, this thing shall be." The damsel sighed, 
" Lady, I do." Then went Niloiya forth. 

And Amarant murmured in her deep amaze, 
" Shall Japhet' s little children kiss my mouth ? 
And will he sometimes take them from my arms, 
And almost care for me for their sweet sake ? 
I have not dared to think I loved him, — now 
I know it well : but O, the bitterness 
For him ! " And ending thus, the damsel rose, 
For Japhet entered. And she bowed herself 
Meekly and made obeisance, but her blood 
Ran cold about her heart, for all his face 
Was colored with his passion. 

Japhet spoke : 
He said, " My father's slave " ; and she replied, 
Low drooping her fair head, " My master's son." 
And after that a silence fell on them, 
With trembling at her heart, and rage at his. 
And Japhet, mastered of his passion, sat 
And could not speak. O ! cruel seemed his fate, • 
So cruel her that told it, so unkind. 
His breast was full of wounded love and wrath 
Wrestling together ; and his eyes flashed out 
Indignant lights, as all amazed he took 
The insult home that she had offered him, 
Who should have held his honor dear. 

And, lo, 
The misery choked him and he cried in pain, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

" Go, get thee forth " ; but she, all white and still, 
Parted her lips to speak, and yet spake not, 
Nor moved. And Japhet rose up passionate, 
With lifted arm as one about to strike ; 
But she cried out and met him, and she held 
With desperate might his hand, and prayed to him, 
" Strike not, or else shall men from henceforth say, 
6 Japhet is like to us.' " And he shook off 
The damsel, and he said, " I thank thee, slave ; 
For never have I stricken yet or child 
Or woman. Not for thy sake am I glad, 
Nay, but for mine. Get hence. Obey my words." 
Then Japhet lifted up his voice, and wept. 

And no more he restrained himself, but cried, 

With heavings of the heart, " hateful day !. 

O day that shuts the door upon delight. 

A slave ! to wed a slave ! loathed wife, 

Hated of Japhet's soul." And after, long, 

With face between his hands, he sat, his thoughts 

Sullen and sore ; then scorned himself, and saying, 

" I will not take her, I will die unwed, 

It is but that " ; lift up his eyes and saw 

The slave, and she was sitting at his feet ; 

And he, so greatly wondering that she dared 

The disobedience, looked her in the face 

Less angry than afraid, for pale she was 

As lily yet unsmiled on by the sun ; 

And he, his passion being spent, sighed out, 



159 



160 A STORY OF DOOM. 

" Low am I fallen indeed. Hast thou no fear, 
That thou dost flout me ? " but she gave to him 
The sighing echo of his sigh, and mourned, 
" No." 

And he wondered, and he looked again, 
For in her heart there was a new-born pang, 
That cried ; but she, as mothers with their young, 
Suffered, yet loved it ; and there shone a strange 
Grave sweetness in her blue unsullied eyes. 
And Japhet, leaning from the settle, thought, 
" What is it ? I will call her by her name, 
To comfort her, for also she is naught 
To blame ; and since I will not her to wife, 
She falls back from the freedom she had hoped." 
Then he said " Amarant " ; and the damsel drew 
Her eyes down slowly from the shaded sky 
Of even, and she said, " My master's son, 
Japhet " ; and Japhet said, " I am not wroth 
With thee, but wretched for my mother's deed, 
Because she shamed me." 

And the maiden said, 
" Doth not thy father love thee well, sweet sir ? " 
" Ay," quoth he, " well." She answered, " Let the heart 
Of Japhet, then, be merry. Go to him 
And say, ' The damsel whom my mother chose, 
Sits by her in the house ; but as for me, 
Sir, ere I take her, let me go with you 
To that same outland country. Also, sir, 
My damsel hath not worked as yet the robe 



A STORY OF DOOM. ^61 

Of her betrothal ' ; now, then, sith he loves, 
He will not say thee nay. Herein for awhile 
Is respite, and thy mother far and near 
Will seek again : it may be she will find 
A fair, free maiden." 

Japhet said, " maid, 
Sweet are thy words ; but what if I return, 
And all again be as it is to-day ? " 
Then Amarant answered, " Some have died in youth ; 
But yet, I think not, sir, that I shall die. 
Though ye shall find it even as I had died, — 
Silent, for any words I might have said ; 
Empty, for any space I might have filled. 
Sir, I will steal away, and hide afar ; 
But if a wife be found, then will I bide 
And serve." He answered, " O, thy speech is good ; 
Now therefore (since my mother gave me thee), 
I will reward it ; I will find for thee 
A goodly husband, and will make him free 
Thee also." 

Then she started from his feet, 
And, red with shame and anger, flashed on him 
The passion of her eyes ; and put her hands 
With catching of the breath to her fair throat, 
And stood in her defiance lost to fear, 
Like some fair hind in desperate danger turned 
And brought to bay, and wild in her despair. 
But shortly, " I remember," quoth she, low, 
With raining down of tears and broken sighs, 



1 62 A STORY OF DOOM. 

" That I am Japhet's slave ; beseech you, sir, 

As ye were ever gentle, ay, and sweet 

Of language to me, be not harder now. 

Sir, I was yours to take ; I knew not, sir, 

That also ye might give me. Pray you, sir, 

Be pitiful, — be merciful to me, 

A slave." He said, " I thought to do thee good, 

For good hath been thy counsel " ; but she cried, 

" Good master, be you therefore pitiful 

To me, a slave." And Japhet wondered much 

At her, and at her beauty, for he thought, 

" None of the daughters are so fair as this, 

Nor stand with such a grace majestical ; 

She in her locks is like the travelling sun, 

Setting, all clad in coifing clouds of gold. 

And would she die unmatched ? " He said to her, 

" What ! wilt thou sail alone in yonder ship, 

And dwell alone hereafter ? " " Ay," she said, 

" And serve my mistress." 

" It is well," quoth he, 
And held his hand to her, as is the way 
Of masters. Then she kissed it, and she said, 
" Thanks for benevolence," and turned herself, 
Adding, " I rest, sir, on your gracious words " ; 
Then stepped into the twilight and was gone. 

And Japhet, having found his father, said, 

" Sir, let me also journey when ye go." 

Who answered, " Hath thy mother done her part ? " 



A STORY OF DOOM. 163 

He said, " Yea, truly, and my damsel sits 

Before her in the house ; and also, sir, 

She said to me, ' I have not worked, as yet, 

The garment of betrothal.' " And he said, 

" 'T is not the manner of our kin to speak 

Concerning matters that a woman rules ; 

But hath thy mother brought a damsel home, 

And let her see thy face, then all is one 

As ye were wed." He answered, " Even so, 

It matters nothing ; therefore hear me, sir : 

The damsel being mine, I am content 

To let her do according to her will ; 

And when we shall return, so surely, sir, 

As I shall find her by my mother's side, 

Then will I take her " ; and he left to speak ; 

His father answering, " Son, thy words are good." 



164 A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK VI. 

NIGHT. Now a tent was pitched, and Japhet sat 
In the door and watched, for on a litter lay 
The father of his love. And he was sick 
To death ; but daily he would rouse him up, 
And stare upon the light, and ever say, 
" On, let us journey " ; but it came to pass 
That night, across their path a river ran, 
And they who served the father and the son 
Had pitched the tents beside it, and had made 
A fire, to scare away the savagery 
That roamed in that great forest, for their w r ay 
Had led among the trees of God. 

The moon 
Shone on the river, like a silver road 
To lead them over ; but when Japhet looked, 
He said, " We shall not cross it. I shall lay 
This well-beloved head low in the leaves, — 
Not on the farther side." From time to time, 
The water-snakes would stir its glassy flow 
"With curling undulations, and would lay 
Their heads along the bank, and, subtle-eyed, 
Consider those long spirting flames, that danced, 
When some red log would break and crumble down, 
And show his dark despondent eyes, that watched, 
Wearily, even Japhet's. But he cared 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



165 



Little ; and in the dark, that was not dark, 

But dimness of confused incertitude, 

Would move a-near all silently, and gaze 

And breathe, and shape itself, a maned thing 

With eyes ; and still he cared not, and the form 

Would falter, then recede, and melt again 

Into the farther shade. And Japhet said : 

" How long ? The moon hath grown again in heaven, 

After her caving twice, since we did leave 

The threshold of our home ; and now what 'vails 

That far on tumbled mountain snow we toiled, 

Hungry, and weary, all the day ; by night 

Waked with a dreadful trembling underneath, 

To look, while every cone smoked, and there ran 

Red brooks adown, that licked the forest up, 

While in the pale white ashes wading on 

We saw no stars ? — what 'vails if afterward, 

Astonished with great silence, we did move 

Over the measureless, unknown desert mead ; 

While all the day, in rents and crevices, 

Would lie the lizard and the serpent kind, 

Drowsy ; and in the night take fearsome shapes, 

And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired 

Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn ; 

Or there would wander up, when we were tired, 

Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose, 

Withstanding us, and staring ; — ! what 'vails 

That in the dread deep forest we have fought 

With following packs of wolves ? These men of might, 



1 66 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Even the giants, shall not hear the doom 
My father came to tell them of. Ah, me ! 
If God indeed had sent him, would he lie 
(For he is stricken with a sore disease) 
Helpless outside their city ? " 

Then he rose, 
And put aside the curtains of the tent, 
To look upon his father's face ; and lo ! 
The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat 
Beside the litter ; and he set his eyes 
To see it, and saw not ; but only marked 
Where, fallen away from manhood and from power, 
His father lay. Then he came forth again, 
Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire, 
And murmured, " Now it is the second time : 
An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw), 
Dreadful of might. Its hair was white as wool : 
I dared not look ; perhaps I saw not aught, 
But only knew that it was there : the same 
Which walked beside us once when he did pray." 
And Japhet hid his face between his hands 
For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness 
Of watching ; and he slumbered not, but mourned 
To himself, a little moment, as it seemed, 
For sake of his loved father : then he lift 
His eyes, and day had dawned. Right suddenly 
The moon withheld her silver, and she hung 
Frail as a cloud. The ruddy flame that played, 
By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood, 






A STORY OF DOOM. 167 

Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world 
And all the water blushed and bloomed. The stars 
Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched 
The feathered heads of palms, and green was born 
Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew 
Like veils across the mountains ; and he saw, 
Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace, 
And the sacredness of morn, the battlements 
And out-posts of the giants ; and there ran 
On the other side the river, as it were, 
White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair, 
And towers below a line of inland cliff: 
These were their fastnesses, and here their homes. 

In valleys and the forest, all that night, 

There had been woe ; in every hollow place, 

And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow, 

Women lay mourning ; for the serpent lodged 

That night within the gates, and had decreed, 

" I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out 

The women, the abhorred of my soul." 

Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom, 

Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs, 

Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink 

The water of the river ; or, new born, 

The quivering butterflies in companies, 

That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 

Like living crocus beds, and also drank, 

And rose an orange cloud ; their hollowed hands 



1 68 4 STORY OF DOOM. 

They dipped between the lilies, or with robes 
Full of ripe fruitage, sat and peeled and ate, 
Weeping ; or comforting their little ones, 
And lulling them with sorrowful long hymns 
Among the palms. 

So went the earlier morn. 
Then came a messenger, while Japhet sat 
Mournfully, and he said, ' The men of might 
Are willing ; let thy master, youth, appear." 
And Japhet said, " So be it " ; and he thought, 
" Now will I trust in God " ; and he went in 
And stood before his father, and he said, 
" My father " ; but the Master answered not, 
But gazed upon the curtains of his tent, 
Nor knew that one had called him. He was clad 
As ready for the journey, and his feet 
Were sandalled, and his staff was at his side ; 
And Japhet took the gown of sacrifice 
And spread it on him, and he laid his crown 
Upon his knees, and he went forth, and lift 
His hand to heaven, and cried, " My father's God ! " 
But neither whisper came nor echo fell 
When he did listen. Therefore he went on : 
" Behold, I have a thing to say to thee. 
My father charged thy servant, ' Let not ruth 
Prevail with thee, to turn and bear me hence, 
For God appointed me my task, to preach 
Before the mighty.' I must do my part 
(0 ! let it not displease thee), for he said 



169 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

But yesternight, c When they shall send for me, 
Take me before them.' And I sware to him. 
I pray thee, therefore, count his life and mine 
Precious ; for I that sware, I will perform." 

Then cried he to his people, " Let us hence : 
Take up the litter." And they set their feet 
Toward the raft whereby men crossed that flood. 



And while they journeyed, lo, the giants sat 
Within the fairest hall where all were fair, 
Each on his carven throne, o'er-eanopied 
With work of women. And the dragon lay 
In a place of honor ; and with subtlety 
He counselled them, for they did speak by turns ; 
And they being proud, might nothing master them, 
But guile alone : and he did fawn on them ; 
And when the younger taunted him, submiss 
He testified great humbleness, and cried, 
" A cruel God, forsooth ! but nay, O nay, 
I will not think it of Him, that He meant 
To threaten these. 0, when I look on them, 
How doth my soul admire." 

And one stood forth, 
The youngest ; of his brethren, named " the Rock." 
" Speak out," quoth he, " thou toothless slavering thing, 
What is it ? thinkest thou that such as we 
Should be afraid ? What is this goodly doom ? " 
And Satan laughed upon him. " Lo," said he, 



i;o A STORY OF DOOM. 

" Thou art not fully grown, and every one 

I look on, standeth higher by the head, 

Yea, and the shoulders, than do other men ; 

Forsooth, thy servant thought not thou wouldst fear, 

Thou and thy fellows." Then with one accord, 

" Speak," cried they ; and with mild persuasive eyes, 

And flattering tongue, he spoke. 

" Ye mighty ones, 
It hath been known to you these many days 
How that for piety I am much famed. 
I am exceeding pious : if I lie, 
As hath been whispered, it is but for sake 
Of God, and that ye should not think Him hard, 
For I am all for God. Now some have thought 
That He hath also (and it may be so 
Or yet may not be so) on me been hard ; 
Be not ye therefore wroth, for my poor sake ; 
I am contented to have earned your weal, 
Though I must therefore suffer. 

" Now to-day 
One cometh, yea, an harmless man, a fool, 
Who boasts he hath a message from our God, 
And lest that you, for bravery of heart 
And stoutness, being angered with his prate, 
Should lift a hand, and kill him, I am here." 

Then spoke the Leader, " How now, snake ? Thy words 
Ring false. Why ever liest thou, snake, to us ? 
Thou coward ! none of us will see thee harmed. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

I say thou liest. The land is strewed with slain ; 
Myself have hewn down companies, and blood 
Makes fertile all the field. Thou knowest it well ; 
And hast thou, driveller, panting sore for age, 
Come with a force to bid us spare one fool ? " 



And Satan answered, " Nay you ! be not wroth ; 

Yet true it is, and yet not all the truth. 

Your servant would have told the rest, if now 

(For fulness of your life being fretted sore 

At mine infirmities, which God in vain 

I supplicate to heal) ye had not caused 

My speech to stop." And he they called " the Oak " 

Made answer, " ? T is a good snake ; let him be. 

Why would ye fright the poor old craven beast ? 

Look how his lolling tongue doth foam for fear. 

Ye should have mercy, brethren, on the weak. 

Speak, dragon, thou hast leave ; make stout thy heart. 

What ! hast thou lied to this great company ? 

It was, we know it was, for humbleness ; 

Thou wert not willing to offend with truth." 

" Yea, majesties," quoth Satan, " thus it was," 

And lifted up appealing eyes, and groaned ; 

" O, can it be, compassionate as brave, 

And housed in cunning works themselves have reared, 

And served in gold, and warmed with minivere, 

And ruling nobly, — that He, not content 

Unless alone He reigneth, looks to bend 



i;r 



1 72 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Or break them in, like slaves to cry to Him, 
6 What is Thy will with us, Master dear ? ' 
Or else to eat of death ? 

" For my part, lords, 
I cannot think it : for my piety 
And reason, which I also share with you, 
Are my best lights, and ever counsel me, 
6 Believe not aught against thy God ; believe, 
Since thou canst never reach to do Him wrong, 
That He will never stoop to do thee wrong. 
Is He not just and equal, yea, and kind ? ' 
Therefore, majesties, it is my mind 
Concerning him ye wot of, thus to think 
The message is not like what I have learned 
By reason and experience, of the God. 
Therefore no message 't is. The man is mad." 
Thereat the great Leader laughed for scorn. "Hold, 

snake ; 
If .God be just, there shall be reckoning days. 
We rather would He were a partial God, 
And being strong, He sided with the strong. 
Turn now thy reason to the other side, 
And speak for that ; for as to justice, snake, 
We would have none of it." 

And Satan fawned : 
" My lord is pleased to mock at my poor wit ; 
Yet in my pious fashion I must talk : 
For say that God was wroth with man, and came 
And slew him, that should make an empty world, 
But not a better nation." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

This replied, 
" Truth, dragon, yet He is not bound to mean 
A better nation ; may be, He designs, 
If none will turn again, a punishment 
Upon an evil one." 

And Satan cried, 
" Alas ! my heart being full of love for men, 
I cannot choose but think of God as like 
To me ; and yet my piety concludes, 
Since He will have your fear, that love alone 
Suffieeth not, and I admire, and say, 
6 Give me, O friends, your love, and give to God 
Your fear.' " But they cried out in wrath and rage, 
" We are not strong that any we will fear, 
Nor specially a foe that means us ill." 



173 



174 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK vn. 



AND while he spoke there was a noise without ; 
The curtains of the door were flung aside, 
And some with heavy feet bare in, and set 
A litter on the floor. 

The Master lay 
Upon it, but his eyes were dimmed and set ; 
And Japhet, in despairing weariness, 
Leaned it beside. He marked the mighty ones, 
Silent for pride of heart, and in his place 
The jewelled dragon ; and the dragon laughed, 
And subtly peered at him, till Japhet shook 
With rage and fear. The snaky wonder cried, 
Hissing, " Thou brown-haired youth, come up to me ; 
I fain would have thee for my shrine afar, 
To serve among an host as beautiful 
As thou : draw near." It hissed, and Japhet felt 
Horrible drawings, and cried out in fear, 
" Father ! O help, the serpent draweth me ! " 
And struggled and grew faint, as in the toils 
A netted bird. But still his father lay 
Unconscious, and the mighty did not speak, 
But half in fear and half for wonderment 
Beheld. And yet again the dragon laughed, 
And leered at him and hissed ; and Japhet strove 
Vainly to take away his spell-set eyes, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 175 

And moved to go to him, till piercingly 

Crying out, " God ! forbid it, God in heaven ! " 

The dragon lowered his head, and shut his eyes 

As feigning sleep ; and, suddenly released, 

He fell back staggering ; and at noise of it, 

And clash of Japhet's weapons on the floor, 

And Japhet's voice crying out, " I loathe thee, snake ! 

I hate thee ! 0, 1 hate thee ! " came again, 

The senses of the shipwright ; and he, moved, 

And looking, as one 'mazed, distressfully 

Upon the mighty, said, " One called on God : 

Where is my God ? If God have need of me, 

Let Him come down and touch my lips with strength, 

Or dying I shall die." 

It came to pass, 
While he was speaking, that the curtains swayed ; 
A rushing wind did move throughout the place, 
And all the pillars shook, and on the head 
Of Noah the hair was lifted, and there played 
A somewhat, as it were a light, upon 
His breast ; then fell a darkness, and men heard 
A whisper as of one that spake. With that, 
The daunted mighty ones kept silent watch 
Until the wind had ceased and darkness fled. 
When it grew light, there curled a cloud of smoke 
From many censers where the dragon lay. 
It hid him. He had called his ministrants, 
And bid them veil him thus, that none might look ; 
Also the folk who came with Noah had fled. 



176 A STORY OF DOOM. 

But Noah was seen, for he stood up erect, 
And leaned on Japhet's hand. Then, after pause, 
The Leader said, " My brethren, it were well 
(For naught we fear) to let this sorcerer speak." 
And they did reach toward the man their staves, 
And cry with loud accord, " Hail, sorcerer, hail ! " 

And he made answer, " Hail ! I am a man 

That is a shipwright. I was born afar 

To Lamech, him that reigns a king, to wit, 

Over the land of Jalal. Majesties, 

I bring a message, — lay you it to heart ; 

For there is wrath in heaven : my God is wroth. 

4 Prepare your houses, or I come,' saith He, 

6 A Judge.' Now, therefore, say not in your hearts, 

6 What have we done ? ' Your dogs may answer that, 

To make whom fiercer for the chase, ye feed 

With captives whom ye slew not in the war, 

But saved alive, and living throw to them 

Daily. Your wives may answer that, whose babes 

Their firstborn ye do take and offer up 

To this abhorred snake, while yet the milk 

Is in their innocent mouths, — your maiden babes 

Tender. Your slaves may answer that, — the gangs 

Whose eyes ye did put out to make them work 

By night unwitting (yea, by multitudes 

They work upon the wheel in chains). Your friends 

May answer that, — (their bleached bones cry out,) 

For ye did, wickedly, to eat their lands, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

Turn on their valleys, in a time of peace, 
The rivers, and they, choking in the night, 
Died unavenged. But rather (for I leave 
To tell of more, the time would be so long 
To do it, and your time, mighty ones, 
Is short), — but rather say, < We sinners know 
Why the Judge standeth at the door,' and turn 
While yet there may be respite, and repent. 



" c Or else,' saith He that formed you, i I swear, 

By all the silence of the times to come, 

By the solemnities of death, — yea, more, 

By Mine own power and love which ye have scorned, 

That I will come. I will command the clouds, 

And raining they shall rain ; yea, I will stir 

With all my storms the ocean for your sake, 

And break for you the boundary of the deep. 

" ' Then shall the mighty mourn. 

Should I forbear, 
That have been patient ? I will not forbear ! 
For yet,' saith He, i the weak cry out ; for yet 
The little ones do languish ; and the slave 
Lifts up to Me his chain. I therefore, I 
Will hear them. I by death will scatter you ; 
Yea, and by death will draw them to My breast, 
And gather them to peace. 

" ' But yet,' saith He, 
6 Repent, and turn you. Wherefore will ye die ? ' 

8* L 



177 



i;8 A STORY OF DOOM, 

" Turn then, turn, while yet the enemy 
Untamed of man fatefully moans afar ; 
For if ye will not turn, the doom is near. 
Then shall the crested wave make sport, and beat 
You mighty at your doors. Will ye be wroth ? 
Will ye forbid it ? Monsters of the deep 
Shall suckle in your palaces their young, 
And swim atween your hangings, all of them 
Costly with broidered work, and rare with gold 
And white and scarlet (there did ye oppress, — 
There did ye make you vile) ; but ye shall lie 
Meekly, and storm and wind shall rage above, 
And urge the weltering wave. 

'"Yet/ saiththy God, 
i Son/ ay, to each of you He saith, ' O son, 
Made in My image, beautiful and strong, 
Why wilt thou die ? Thy Father loves thee well. 
Repent and turn thee from thine evil ways, 
O son ! and no more dare the wrath of love. 
Live for thy Father's sake that formed thee. 
Why wilt thou die ? ' Here will I make an end/' 

Now ever on his dais the dragon lay, 
Feigning to sleep ; and all the mighty ones 
Were wroth, and chided, some against the woe, 
And some at whom the sorcerer they had named, — 
Some at their fellows, for the younger sort, — 
As men the less acquaint with deeds of blood, 
And given to learning and the arts of peace 



A STORY OF DOOM. 

(Their fathers having crushed rebellion out 
Before their time) — lent favorable ears. 
They said, " A man, or false or fanatic, 
May claim good audience if he fill our ears 
With what is strange : and we would hear again." 



The Leader said, " An audience hath been given. 
The man hath spoken, and his words are naught ; 
A feeble threatener, with a foolish threat, 
And it is not our manner that we sit 
Beyond the noonday " ; then they grandly rose, 
A stalwart crowd, and with their Leader moved 
To the tones of harping, and the beat of shawms, 
And the noise of pipes, away. But some were left 
About the Master ; and the feigning snake 
Couched on his dais. 

Then one to Japhet said, 
One called " the Cedar-Tree," " Dost thou, too, think 
To reign upon our lands when we lie drowned ? " 
And Japhet said, " I think not, nor desire, 
Nor in my heart consent, but that ye swear 
Allegiance to the God, and live." He cried, 
To one surnamed " the Pine," — " Brother, behooves 
That deep we cut our names in yonder crag, 
Else when this youth returns, his sons may ask 
Our names, and he may answer, i Matters not, 
For my part I forget them/ " 

Japhet said, 
" They might do worse than that, they might deny 



179 



180 A STORY OF DOOM. 

That such as you have ever been." With that 
They answered, " No, thou dost not think it, no ! " 
And Japhet, being chafed, replied in heat, 
" And wherefore ? if ye say of what is sworn, 
' He will not do it,' shall it be more hard 
For future men, if any talk on it, 
To say, < He did not do it ' ? " They replied, 
With laughter, " Lo you ! he is stout with us. 
And yet he cowered before the poor old snake. 
Sirrah, when you are saved, we pray you now 
To bear our might in mind, — do, sirrah, do ; 
And likewise tell your sons, ' " The Cedar Tree " 
Was a good giant, for he struck me not, 
Though he was young and full of sport, and though 
I taunted him.' " 

With that they also passed. 
But there remained who with the shipwright spoke : 
" How wilt thou certify to us thy truth ? ' 
And he related to them all his ways 
From the beginning : of the Voice that called ; 
Moreover, how the ship of doom was built. 

And one made answer, " Shall the mighty God 
Talk with a man of wooden beams and bars ? 
No, thou mad preacher, no. If He, Eterne, 
Be ordering of His far infinitudes, * 

And darkness cloud a world, it is but chance, 
As if the shadow of His hand had fallen 
On one that He forgot, and troubled it." 



A STORY OF DOOM. jgi 

Then said the Master, " Yet, — who told thee so ? " 

And from his dans the feigning serpent hissed : 
" Preacher, the light within, it was that shined, 
And told him so. The pious will have dread 
Him to declare such as ye rashly told. 
The course of God is one. It likes not us 
To think of Him as being acquaint with change : 
It were beneath Him. Nay, the finished earth 
Is left to her great masters. They must rule ; 
They do ; and I have set myself between, — 
A visible thing for worship, sith His face 
(For He is hard) He showeth not to men. 
Yea, I have set myself 'twixt God and man, 
To be interpreter, and teach mankind 
A pious lesson by my piety, 
He loveth not, nor hateth, nor desires, — 
It were beneath Him." 

And the Master said, 
" Thou liest. Thou wouldst lie away the world, 
If He, whom thou hast dared speak against, 
"Would suffer it." " I may not chide with thee," 
It answered, " now ; but if there come such time 
As thou hast prophesied, as I now reign 
In all men's sight, shall my dominion then 
Reach to be mighty in their souls. Thou too 
Shalt feel it, prophet." And he lowered his head. 

Then quoth the Leader of the young men : " Sir, 



1 82 A STORY OF DOOM. 

We scorn you not ; speak further ; yet our thought 
First answer. Not but by a miracle 
Can this thing be. The fashion of the world 
We heretofore have never known to change ; 
And will God change it now ? " 

He then replied: 
" What is thy thought ? There is no miracle ? 
There is a great one, which thou hast not read, 
And never shalt escape. Thyself, O man, 
Thou art the miracle. Lo, if thou say est, 
' I am one, and fashioned like the gracious world, 
Eed clay is all my make, myself, my whole, 
And not my habitation,' then thy sleep 
Shall give thee wings to play among the rays 
0' the morning. If thy thought be, ' I am one, — 
A spirit among spirits, — and the world 
A dream my spirit dreameth of, my dream 
Being all,' the dominating mountains strong 
Shall not for that forbear to take thy breath, 
And rage with all their winds, and beat thee back, 
And beat thee down when thou wouldst set thy feet 
Upon their awful crests. Ay, thou thyself, 
Being in the world and of the world, thyself 
Hast breathed in breath from Him that made the world. 
Thou dost inherit, as thy Maker's son, 
That which He is, and that which He hath made : 
Thou art thy Father's copy of Himself, — 
Thou art thy Father's miracle. 

Behold 
He buildeth up the stars in companies ; 



A STORY OF DOOM. 183 

He made for them a law. To man He said, 

1 Freely I give thee freedom.' What remains ? 

O, it remains, if thou, the image of God, 

Wilt reason well, that thou shalt know His ways ; 

But first thou must be loyal, — love, O man, 

Thy Father, — hearken when He pleads with thee, 

For there is something left of Him e'en now, — 

A witness for thy Father in thy soul, 

Albeit thy better state thou hast foregone. 

" Now, then, be still, and think not in thy soul, 

< The rivers in their course forever run, 

And turn not from it. He is like to them 

Who made them.' Think the rather, ' With my foot 

I have turned the rivers from their ancient way, 

To water grasses that were fading. What ! 

Is God my Father as the river wave, 

That yet descendeth, like the lesser thing 

He made, and not like me, a living son, 

That changed the watercourse to suit his will ? ' 

" Man is the miracle in nature. God 

Is the One Miracle to man. Behold, 

' There is a God,' thou sayest. Thou sayest well : 

In that thou sayest all. To Be is more 

Of wonderful, than being, to have wrought, 

Or reigned, or rested. 

Hold then there, content ; 
Learn that to love is the one way to know, 



1 84 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Or God or man : it is not love received 
That maketh man to know the inner life 
Of them that love him ; his own love bestowed 
Shall do it. Love thy Father, and no more 
His doings shall be strange. Thou shalt not fret 
At any counsel, then, that He will send, — 
No, nor rebel, albeit He have with thee 
Great reservations. Know, to Be is more 
Than to have acted ; yea, or after rest 
And patience, to have risen and been wroth, 
Broken the sequence of an ordered earth, 
And troubled nations." 

Then the dragon sighed. 
" Poor fanatic," quoth he, " thou speakest well. 
Would I were like thee, for thy faith is strong, 
Albeit thy senses wander. Yea, good sooth, 
My masters, let us not despise, but learn 
Fresh loyalty from this poor loyal soul. 
Let us go forth — (myself will also go 
To head you) — and do sacrifice ; for that, 
We know, is pleasing to the mighty God : 
But as for building many arks of wood, 
O majesties ! when He shall counsel you 
Himself, then build. What say you, shall it be 
An hundred oxen, — fat, well liking, white ? 
An hundred ? why, a thousand were not much 
To such as you." Then Noah lift up his arms 
To heaven, and cried, " Thou aged shape of sin, 
The Lord rebuke thee." 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK VIII. 



I8 5 



THEN one ran, crying, while Niloiya wrought, 
" The Master cometh ! " and she went within 
To adorn herself for meeting him. And Shem 
Went forth and talked with Japhet in the field, 
And said, " Is it well, my brother ? " He replied, 
" Well ! and, I pray you, is it well at home ? " 

But Shem made answer, " Can a house be well, 
If he that should command it bides afar ? 
Yet well is thee, because a fair free maid 
Is found to wed thee ; and they bring her in 
This day at sundown. Therefore is much haste 
To cover thick with costly webs the floor, 
And pluck and cover thick the same with leaves 
Of all sweet herbs, — I warrant, ye shall hear 
No footfall where she treadeth ; and the seats 
Are ready, spread with robes ; the tables set 
With golden baskets, red pomegranates shred 
To fill them ; and the rubied censers smoke, 
Heaped up with ambergris and cinnamon, 
And frankincense and cedar." 

Japhet said, 
" I will betroth her to me straight " ; and went 
(Yet labored he with sore disquietude) 
To gather grapes, and reap and bind the sheaf 



1 86 A STORY OF DOOM. 

For his betrothal. And his brother spake, 

" Where is our father ? doth he preach to-day ? " 

And Japhet answered, " Yea. He said to me, 

' Go forward ; I will follow when the folk 

By yonder mountain-hold I shall have warned.' " 

And Shem replied, " How thinkest thou ? — thine ears 
Have heard him oft." He answered, " I do think 
These be the last days of this old fair world." 

Then he did tell him of the giant folk : 

How they, than he, were taller by the head ; 

How one must stride that will ascend the steps 

That lead to their wide halls ; and how they drave, 

"With manful shouts, the mammoth to the north ; 

And how the talking dragon lied and fawned, 

They seated proudly on their ivory thrones, 

And scorning him : and of their peaked hoods, 

And garments wrought upon, each with the tale 

Of him that wore it, — all his manful deeds 

(Yea, and about their skirts were effigies 

Of kings that they had slain ; and some, whose swords 

Many had pierced, wore vestures all of red, 

To signify much blood) : and of their pride 

He told, but of the vision in the tent 

He told him not. 

And when they reached the house, 
Niloiya met them, and to Japhet cried, 
66 All hail, right fortunate ! Lo, I have found 



A STORY OF DOOM. 187 

A maid. And now thou hast done well to reap 
The late ripe corn." So he went in with her, 
And she did talk with him right motherly : 
" It hath been fully told me how ye loathed 
To wed thy father's slave ; yea, she herself, 
Did she not all declare to me ? " 

He said, 
" Yet is thy damsel fair, and wise of heart." 
" Yea," quoth his mother ; " she made clear to me 
How ye did weep, my son, and ye did vow, 
' 1 will not take her ! ' Now it was not I 
That wrought to have it so." And he replied, 
" I know it." Quoth the mother, " It is well ; 
For that same cause is laughter in my heart." 
" But she is sweet of language," Japhet said. 
" Ay," quoth Niloiya, " and thy wife no less 
Whom thou shalt wed anon, — forsooth, anon, — 
It is a lucky hour. Thou wilt ? " He said, 
" I will." And Japhet laid the slender sheaf 
From off his shoulder, and he said, " Behold, 
My father ! " Then Niloiya turned herself, 
And lo ! the shipwright stood. " All hail ! " quoth she. 
And bowed herself, and kissed him on the mouth ; 
But while she spake with him, sorely he sighed ; 
And she did hang about his neck the robe] 
Of feasting, and she poured upon his hands 
Clear water, and anointed him, and set 
Before him bread. 

And Japhet said to him, 



188 ^ STORY OF DOOM. 

" My father, my beloved, wilt thou yet 

Be sad because of scorning ? Eat this day ; 

For as an angel in their eyes thou art 

Who stand before thee." But he answered, " Peace ! 

Thy words are wide." 

And when Niloiya heard, 
She said, " Is this a time for mirth of heart 
And wine ? Behold, I thought to wed my son, 
Even this Japhet ; but is this a time, 
When sad is he to whom is my desire, 
And lying under sorrow as from God ? " 

He answered, " Yea, it is a time of times ; 
Bring in the maid." Niloiya said, " The maid 
That first I spoke on, shall not Japhet wed ; 
It likes not her, nor yet it likes not me. 
But I have found another ; yea, good sooth, 
The damsel will not tarry, she will come 
With all her slaves by sundown." 

And she said, 
" Comfort thy heart, and eat : moreover, know 
How that thy great work even to-day is done. 
Sir, thy great ship is finished, and the folk 
(For I, according to thy will, have paid 
All that was left us to them for their wage,) 
Have brought, as to a storehouse, flour of wheat, 
Honey and oil, — much victual; yea, and fruits, 
Curtains and household gear. And, sir, they say 
It is thy will to take it for thy hold 



A STORY OF DOOM. 1 89 

Our fastness and abode/' He answered, " Yea, 
Else wherefore was it built ? " She said, " Good sir, 
I pray you make us not the whole earth's scorn. 
And now, to-morrow in thy father's house 
Is a great feast, and weddings are toward ; 
Let be the ship, till after, for thy words 
Have ever been, c If God shall send a flood, 
There will I dwell ' ; I pray you therefore wait 
At least till He doth send it." 

And he turned, 
And answered nothing. Now the sun was low 
While yet she spake ; and Japhet came to them 
In goodly raiment, and upon his arm 
The garment of betrothal. And with that 
A noise, and then brake in a woman slave 
And Amarant. This, with folding of her hands, 
Did say full meekly, " If I do offend, 
Yet have not I been willing to offend ; 
For now this woman will not be denied 
Herself to tell her errand." 

And they sat. 
Then spoke the woman, " If I do offend, 
Pray you forgive the bondslave, for her tongue 
Is for her mistress. ' Lo ! ' my mistress saith, 
* Put. off thy bravery, bridegroom ; fold away, 
Mother, thy webs of pride, thy costly robes 
Woven of many colors. We have heard 
Thy master. Lo, to-day right evil things 
He prophesied to us, that were his friends ; 



190 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



Therefore, my answer : — God do so to me ; 
Yea, God do so to me, more also, more 
Than He did threaten, if my damsel's foot 
Ever draw nigh thy door.' " 

And when she heard, 
Niloiya sat amazed, in grief of soul. 
But Japhet came unto the slave, where low 
She bowed herself for fear. He said, " Depart ; 
Say to thy mistress, * It is well.' " With that 
She turned herself, and she made haste to flee, 
Lest any, for those evil words she brought, 
Would smite her. But the bondmaid of the house 
Lift up her hand and said, " If I offend, 
It was not of my heart : thy damsel knew 
Naught of this matter." And he held to her 
His hand and touched her, and said, " Amarant ! " 
And when she looked upon him, she did take 
And spread before her face her radiant locks, 
Trembling. And Japhet said, " Lift up thy face, 

fairest of the daughters, thy fair face ; 

For, lo ! the bridegroom standeth with the robe 
Of thy betrothal ! " — and he took her locks 
In his two hands to part them from her brow, 
And laid them on her shoulders ; and he said, 
" Sweet are the blushes of thy face," and put 
The robe upon her, having said, " Behold, 

1 have repented me ; and oft by night, 

In the waste wilderness, while all things slept, 
I thought upon thy words, for they were sweet. 



A STORY OF DOOM. ig X 

" For this I make thee free. And now thyself 
Art loveliest in mine eyes ; I look, and lo ! 
Thou art of beauty more than any thought 
I had concerning thee. Let, then, this robe, 
Wrought on with imagery of fruitful bough, 
And graceful leaf, and birds with tender eyes, 
Cover the ripples of thy tawny hair." 
So when she held her peace, he brought her nigh 
To hear the speech of wedlock ; ay, he took 
The golden cup of wine to drink with her, 
And laid the sheaf upon her arms. He said, 
" Like as my fathers in the older days 
Led home the daughters whom they chose, do I ; 
Like as they said, ' Mine honor have I set 
Upon thy head I ' do I. Eat of my bread, 
Rule in my house, be mistress of my slaves, 
And mother of my children." 

And he brought 
The damsel to his father, saying, " Behold 
My wife ! I have betrothed her to myself ; 
I pray you, kiss her." And the Master did : 
He said, " Be mother of a multitude, 
And let them to their father even so 
Be found, as he is found to me." 

With that 
She answered, " Let this woman, sir, find grace 
And favor in your sight." 

And Japhet said, 
" Sweet mother, I have wed the maid ye chose 



192 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



And brought me first. I leave her in thy hand ; 
Have care on her, till I shall come again 
And ask her of thee." So they went apart, 
He and his father to the marriage feast. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



BOOK IX. 



193 



THE prayer of Noah. The man went forth by night 
And listened ; and the earth was dark and still, 
And he was driven of his great distress 
Into the forest ; but the birds of night 
Sang sweetly ; and he fell upon his face, 
And cried, " God, God ! Thy billows and Thy waves 
Have swallowed up my soul. 

" Where is my God ? 
For I have somewhat yet to plead with Thee ; 
For I have walked the strands of Thy great deep, 
Heard the dull thunder of its rage afar, 
And its dread moaning. O, the field is sweet, — 
Spare it. The delicate woods make white their trees 
With blossom, — spare them. Life is sweet ; behold 
There is much cattle, and the wild and tame, 
Father, do feed in quiet, — spare them. 

"God! 
Where is my God ? The long wave doth not rear 
Her ghostly crest to lick the forest up, 
And like a chief in battle fall, — not yet. 
The lightnings pour not down, from ragged holes 
In heaven, the torment of their forked tongues, 
And, like fell serpents, dart and sting, — not yet. 
The winds awake not, with their awful wings 
To winnow, even as chaff, from out their track, 

9 M 



194 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



All that withstandeth, and bring down the pride 
Of all things strong and all things high * — 

" Not yet. 
0, let it not be yet. Where is my God ? 
How am I saved, if I and mine be saved 
Alone ? I am not saved, for I have loved 
My country and my kin. Must I, Thy thrall, 
Over their lands be lord when they are gone ? 
I would not : spare them, Mighty. Spare Thyself, 
For Thou dost love them greatly, — and if not . . . / 

Another praying unremote, a Voice 
Calm as the solitude between wide stars. 

" Where is my God, who loveth this lost world, — 

Lost from its place and name, but won for Thee ? 

Where is my multitude, my multitude, 

That I shall gather ? " And white smoke went up 

From incense that was burning, but there gleamed 

No light of fire, save dimly to reveal 

The whiteness rising, as the prayer of him 

That mourned. " My God, appear for me, appear ; 

Give me my multitude, for it is mine. 

The bitterness of death I have not feared, 

To-morrow shall Thy courts, O God, be full. 

Then shall the captive from his bonds go free, 

Then shall the thrall find rest, that knew not rest 

From labor and from blows. The sorrowful — 

That said of joy, ' What is it ? * and of songs, 



A STORY OF DOOM. 



1 95 



* We have not heard them ' — shall be glad and sing ; 
Then shall the little ones that knew not Thee, 
And such as heard not of Thee, see Thy face, 
And seeing, dwell content." 

The prayer of Noah. 
He cried out in the darkness, " Hear, O God, 
Hear Hnr : hear this one ; through the gates of death, 
If life be all past praying for, give 
To Thy great multitude a way to peace ; 
Give them to Hoi. 

" But yet," said he, " yet, 
If there be respite for the terrible, 
The proud, yea, such as scorn Thee, — and if not .... 
Let not mine eyes behold their fall." 

He cried, 
" Forgive. I have not done Thy work, Great Judge, 
With a perfect heart ; I have but half believed, 
While in accustomed language I have warned ; 
And now there is no more to do, no place 
For my repentance, yea, no hour remains 
For doing of that work again. 0, lost, 
Lost world! " And while he prayed, the daylight dawned. 



And Noah went up into the ship, and sat 
Before the Lord. And all was still ; and now 
In that great quietness the sun came up, 
And there were marks across it, as it were 



196 A. STORY OF DOOM. 

The shadow of a Hand upon the sun, — 
Three fingers dark and dread, and afterward 
There rose a white, thick mist, that peacefully 
Folded the fair earth in her funeral shroud, 
The earth that gave no token, save that now 
There fell a little trembling under foot. 

And Noah went down, and took and hid his face 

Behind his mantle, saying, " I have made 

Great preparation, and it may be yet, 

Beside my house, whom I did charge to come 

This day to meet me, there may enter in 

Many that yesternight thought scorn of all 

My bidding." And because the fog was thick, 

He said, " Forbid it, Heaven, if such there be, 

That they should miss the way." And even then 

There was a noise of weeping and lament ; 

The words of them that were affrighted, yea, 

And cried for grief of heart. There came to him 

The mother and her children, and they cried, 

" Speak, father, what is this ? What hast thou done ? ' 

And when he lifted up his face, he saw 

Japhet, his well-beloved, where he stood 

Apart ; and Amarant leaned upon his breast, 

And hid her face, for she was sore afraid ; 

And lo ! the robes of her betrothal gleamed 

"White in the deadly gloom. 

And at his feet 
The wives of his two other sons did kneel, 
And wring their hands. 



A STORY OF DOOM. 197 

One cried, " O, speak to us ; 
We are affrighted ; we have dreamed a dream, 
Each to herself. For me, I saw in mine 
The grave old angels, like to shepherds, walk, 
Much cattle following them. Thy daughter looked, 
And they did enter here." 

The other lay 
And moaned, " Alas ! father, for my dream 
Was evil : lo, I heard when it was dark, 
I heard two wicked ones contend for me. 
One said, 6 And wherefore should this woman live, 
When only for her children, and for her, 
Is woe and degradation ? ' Then he laughed, 
The other crying, ' Let alone, O prince ; 
Hinder her not to live and bear much seed, 
Because I hate her.' " 

But he said, " Eise up, 
Daughters of Noah, for I have learned no words 
To comfort you." Then spake her lord to her, 
" Peace ! or I swear that for thy dream, myself 
Will hate thee also." 

And Niloiya said, 
" My sons, if one of you will hear my words, 
Go now, look out, and tell me of the day, 
How fares it ? " 

And the fateful darkness grew. 
But Shem went up to do his mother's will ; 
And all was one as though the frighted earth 
Quivered and fell a-trembling ; then they hid 



198 A STORY OF DOOM. 

Their faces every one, till he returned, 

And spake not. " Nay," they cried, " what hast thou 

seen ? 
O, is it come to this ? " He answered them, 
" The door is shut." 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 




SAILING BEYOND SEAS. 

{Old Style.) 

RETHOUGHT the stars were blinking bright, 
And the old brig's sails unfurled ; 
I said, " I will sail to my love this night 
At the other side of the world." 
I stepped aboard, — we sailed so fast, — 

The sun shot up from the bourne ; 
But a dove that perched upon the mast 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 
O fair dove ! fond dove ! 

And dove with the white breast, 
Let me alone, the dream is my own, 
And my heart is full of rest. 

My true love fares on this great hill, 

Feeding his sheep for aye ; 
I looked in his hut, but all was still, 

My love was gone away. 

9* 



202 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

I went to gaze in the forest creek, 

And the dove mourned on apace ; 
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek 
Rose up to show me his place. 
last love ! O first love ! 

My love with the true heart, 
To think I have come to this your home, 
And yet — we are apart ! 

My love ! He stood at my right hand, 

His eyes were grave and sweet. 
Methought he said, " In this far land, 

0, is it thus we meet ! 
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here ; 

I have no place, — no part, — 
No dwelling more by sea or shore, 
But only in thy heart." 

O fair dove ! fond dove ! 

Till night rose over the bourne, 
The dove on the mast, as we sailed fast, 
Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



REMONSTRANCE. 



203 



DAUGHTERS of Eve ! your mother did not well : 
She laid the apple in your father's hand, 
And we have read, wonder ! what befell, — 

The man was not deceived, nor yet could stand : 
He chose to lose, for love of her, his throne, — 
With her could die, but could not live alone. 

Daughters of Eve ! he did not fall so low, 
Nor fall so far, as that sweet woman fell ; 

For something better, than as gods to know, 
That husband in that home left off to dwell : 

For this, till love be reckoned less than lore, 

Shall man be first and best for evermore. 

Daughters of Eve ! it was for your dear sake 
The world's first hero died an uncrowned king ; 

But God's great pity touched the grand mistake, 
And made his married love a sacred thing: 

For yet his nobler sons, if aught be true, 

Find the lost Eden in their love to you. 



204 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



SONG FOR THE NIGHT OF CHRIST'S 
RESURRECTION. 

{A Humble Imitation.) 

" And birds of cairn sit brooding on the charmed wave." 

IT is the noon of night, 
And the world's Great Light 
Gone out, she widow-like doth carry her : 
The moon hath veiled her face, 
Nor looks on that dread place 
Where He lieth dead in sealed sepulchre ; 
And heaven and hades, emptied, lend 
Their flocking multitudes to watch and wait the end. 

Tier above tier they rise, 

Their wings new line the skies, 
And shed out comforting light among the stars ; 

But they of the other place 

The heavenly signs deface, 
The gloomy brand of hell their brightness mars ; 

Yet high they sit in throned state, — 
It is the hour of darkness to them dedicate. 

And first and highest set, 
Where the black shades are met, 
The lord of night and hades leans him down ; 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 



205 



His gleaming eyeballs show 
More awful than the glow, 
Which hangeth by the points of his dread crown ; 
And at his feet, where lightnings play, 
The fatal sisters sit and weep, and curse their day. 

Lo ! one, with eyes all wide, 
As she were sight denied, 
Sits blindly feeling at her distaff old ; 
One, as distraught with woe, 
Letting the spindle go, 
Her star y-sprinkled gown doth shivering fold ; 
And one right mournful hangs her head, 
Complaining, " Woe is me ! I may not cut the thread. 

" All men of every birth, 

Yea, great ones of the earth, 
Kings and their councillors, have I drawn down ; 

But I am held of Thee, — 

Why dost Thou trouble me, 
To bring me up, dead King, that keep'st Thy crown ? 

Yet for all courtiers hast but ten 
Lowly, unlettered, Galilean fishermen. 

" Olympian heights are bare 
Of whom men worshipped there, 
Immortal feet their snows may print no more ; 
Their stately powers below 
Lie desolate, nor know 



206 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

This thirty years Thessalian grove or shore ; 
But I am elder far than they ; — 
Where is the sentence writ that I must pass away ? 

" Art thou come up for this, 

Dark regent, awful Dis ? 
And hast thou moved the deep to mark our ending ? 

And stirred the dens beneath, 

To see us eat of death, 
With all the scoffing heavens toward us bending ? 

Help ! powers of ill, see not us die ! " 
But neither demon dares, nor angel deigns, reply. 

Her sisters, fallen on sleep, 
Fade in the upper deep, 
And their grim lord sits on, in doleful trance ; 
Till her black veil she rends, 
. And with her death-shriek bends 
Downward the terrors of her countenance ; 

Then, whelmed in night and no more seen, 
They leave the world a doubt if ever such have been. 

And the winged armies twain 

Their awful watch maintain ; 
They mark the earth at rest with her Great Dead. 

Behold, from Antres wide, 

Green Atlas heave his side ; 
His moving woods their scarlet clusters shed, 

The swathing coif his front that cools, 
And tawny lions lapping at his palm-edged pools. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 2 0? 

Then like a heap of snow, 

Lying where grasses grow, 
See glimmering, while the moony lustres creep, 

Mild mannered Athens, dight 

In dewy marbles white, 
Among her goddesses and gods asleep ; 

And swaying on a purple sea, 
The many moored galleys clustering at her quay. 

Also, 'neath palm-trees' shade, 

Amid their camels laid, 
The pastoral tribes with all their flocks at rest ; 

Like to those old-world folk, 

With whom two angels broke 
The bread of men at Abram's courteous 'quest, 

When, listening as they prophesied, 
His desert princess, being reproved, her laugh denied. 

Or from the Morians' land 

See worshipped Nilus bland, 
Taking the silver road he gave the world, 

To wet his ancient shrine 

With waters held divine, 
And touch his temple steps with wavelets curled, 

And list, ere darkness change to gray, 
Old minstrel-throated Memnon chanting in the day. 

Moreover, Indian glades, 

Where kneel the sun-swart maids, 



208 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

On Gunga's flood their votive flowers to throw, 
And launch i' the sultry night 
Their burning cressets bright, 

Most like a fleet of stars that southing go, 
Till on her bosom prosperously 
She floats them shining forth to sail the lulled sea. 

Nor bend they not their eyn 

Where the watch-fires shine, 
By shepherds fed, on hills of Bethlehem : 

They mark, in goodly wise, 

The city of David rise, 
The gates and towers of rare Jerusalem ; 

And hear the 'scaped Kedron fret, 
And night dews dropping from the leaves of Olivet. 

But now the setting moon 

To curtained lands must soon, 
In her obedient fashion, minister ; 

She first, as loath to go, 

Lets her last silver flow 
Upon her Master's sealed sepulchre ; 

And trees that in the gardens spread, 
She kisseth all for sake of His low-lying head, 

Then 'neath the rim goes down ; 
And night with darker frown 
Sinks on the fateful garden watched long ; 
"When some despairing eyes, 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 2 og 

Far in the murky skies, 
The unwished waking by their gloom foretell ; 
And blackness up the welkin swings, 
And drinks the mild effulgence from celestial wings. 

Last, with amazed cry, 

The hosts asunder fly, 
Leaving an empty gulf of blackest hue ; 

Whence straightway shooteth down, 

By the Great Father thrown, 
A mighty angel, strong and dread to view ; 

And at his fall the rocks are rent, 
The waiting world doth quake with mortal tremblement ; 

The regions far and near 

Quail with a pause of fear, 
More terrible than aught since time began ; 

The winds, that dare not fleet, 

Drop at his awful feet, 
And in its bed wails the wide ocean ; 

The flower of dawn forbears to blow, 
And the oldest running river cannot skill to flow. 

At stand, by that dread place, 

He lifts his radiant face, 
And looks to heaven with reverent love and fear ; 

Then, while the welkin quakes, 

The muttering thunder breaks, 
And lightnings shoot and ominous meteors drear, 



2io CONTRASTED SONGS. 

And all the daunted earth doth moan, 
He from the doors of death rolls back the sealed stone. — 

— In regal quiet deep, 

Lo, One new waked from sleep ! 
Behold, He standeth in the rock-hewn door ! 

Th y children shall not die, — 

Peace, peace, thy Lord is by ! 
He liveth ! — they shall live for evermore. 

Peace ! lo, He lifts a priestly hand, 
And blesseth all the sons of men in every land. 

Then, with great dread and wail, 

Fall down, like storms of hail, 
The legions of the lost in fearful wise ; 

And they whose blissful race 

Peoples the better place, 
Lift up their wings to cover their fair eyes, 

And through the waxing saffron brede, 
Till they are lost in light, recede, and yet recede. 

So while the fields are dim, 

And the red sun his rim 
First heaves, in token of his reign benign, 

All stars the most admired, 

Into their blue retired, 
Lie hid, — the faded moon forgets to shine, — 

And, hurrying down the sphery way, 
Night flies, and sweeps her shadows from the paths of day. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 2 ll 

But look ! the Saviour blest, 
Calm after solemn rest, 
Stands in the garden 'neath His olive boughs ; 
The earliest smile of day 
Doth on His vesture play, 
And light the majesty of His still brows ; 

While angels hang with wings outspread, 
Holding the new-won crown above His saintly head. 



SONG OF MAKGAKET. 

AY, I saw her, we have met, — 
Married eyes how sweet they be, • 
Are you happier, Margaret, 

Than you might have been with me ? 
Silence ! make no more ado ! 

Did she think I should forget ? 
Matters nothing, though I knew, 
Margaret, Margaret. 

Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy, 
Told a certain thing to mine ; 

What they told me I put by, 
O, so careless of the sign. 

Such an easy thing to take, 
And I did not want it then ; 



212 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Fool ! I wish my heart would break, 
Scorn is hard on hearts of men. 

Scorn of self is bitter work, — 

Each of us has felt it now : 
Bluest skies she counted mirk, 

Self-betrayed of eyes and brow ; 
As for me, I went my way, 

And a better man drew nigh, 
Fain to earn, with long essay, 

What the winner's hand threw by. 

Matters not in deserts old, 

What was born, and waxed, and yearned, 
Year to year its meaning told, 

I am come, — its deeps are learned, — 
Come, but there is naught to say, — 

Married eyes with mine have met. 
Silence ! O, I had my day, 

Margaret, Margaret. 



SONG OF THE GOING AWAY. 

« f~\ LD man, upon the green hillside, 
\~J With yellow flowers besprinkled o'er, 

How long in silence wilt thou bide 
At this low stone door ? 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 

" I stoop : within 't is dark and still ; 

But shadowy paths methinks there be, 
And lead they far into the hill ? " 

" Traveller, come and see." 

" *T is dark, 9 t is cold, and hung with gloom ; 

I care not now within to stay ; 
For thee and me is scarcely room, 

I will hence away." 

" Not so, not so, thou youthful guest, 
Thy foot shall issue forth no more : 

Behold the chamber of thy rest, 
And the closing door ! " 

" 0, have I 'scaped the whistling ball, 
And striven on smoky fields of fight, 

And scaled the 'leaguered city's wall 
In the dangerous night ; 

" And borne my life unharmed still 
Through foaming gulfs of yeasty spray, 

To yield it on a grassy hill 
At the noon of day ? " 

" Peace ! Say thy prayers, and go to sleep, 
Till some time, One my seal shall break, 

And deep shall answer unto deep, 
When He crieth, ' Awake ! ' " 



213 



214 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

A LILY AND A LUTE. 
(Song of the uncommunicated Ideal.) 



I OPENED the eyes of my soul. 
And behold, 
A white river-lily : a lily awake, and aware, — 
For she set her face upward, — aware how in scarlet and 

gold 
A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, 
Lay over with fold upon fold, 
With fold upon fold. 

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her 

also ashamed, 
The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair ; 
And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, 

And that no foot hath trod, 
Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, 
A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them 

endure, 
Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves 

pure, 

And look up to God. 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 2 I$ 

Then I said, " In rosy air, 
Cradled on thy reaches fair, 
While the blushing early ray 
Whitens into perfect day, 
River-lily, sweetest known, 
Art thou set for me alone ? 
Nay, but I will bear thee far, 
Where yon clustering steeples are, 
And the bells ring out o'erhead, 
And the stated prayers are said ; 
And the busy farmers pace. 
Trading in the market-place ; 
And the country lasses sit, 
By their butter, praising it ; 
And the latest news is told, 
While the fruit and cream are sold ; 
And the friendly gossips greet, 
Up and down the sunny street. 
For," I said, " I have not met, 
White one, any folk as yet 
Who would send no blessing up, 
Looking on a face like thine ; 
For thou art as Joseph's cup, 
And by thee might they divine. 

" Nay ! but thou a spirit art ; 
Men shall take thee in the mart 
For the ghost of their best thought, 
Raised at noon, and near them brought ; 



2i6 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Or the prayer they made last night, 
Set before them all in white." 

And I put out my rash hand, 
For I thought to draw to land 
The white lily. Was it fit 
Such a blossom should expand, 
Fair enough for a world's wonder, 
And no mortal gather it ? 
No. I strove, and it went under, 
And I drew, but it went down ; 
And the waterweeds' long tresses, 
And the overlapping cresses, 
Sullied its admired crown. 
Then along the river strand, 
Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, 
Of its beauty half despoiled, 
And its snowy pureness soiled : 
O ! I took it in my hand, — 
You will never see it now, 
White and golden as it grew : 
No, I cannot show it you, 
Nor the cheerful town endow 
With the freshness of its brow. 

If a royal painter, great 
With the colors dedicate 
To a dove's neck, a sea-bight, 
And the flickerings over white 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 217 

Mountain summits far a way, — 
One content to give his mind 
To the enrichment of mankind, 
And the laying up of light 
In men's houses, — on that day, 
Could have passed in kingly mood, 
Would he ever have endued 
Canvas with the peerless thing, 
In the grace that it did bring, 
And the light that o'er it flowed, 
With the pureness that it showed, 
And the pureness that it meant ? 
Could he skill to make it seen 
As he saw ? For this, I ween, 
He were likewise impotent 

11. 

I opened the doors of my heart. 

And behold, 
There was music within and a song, 
And echoes did feed on the sweetness, repeating it long. 
I opened the doors of my heart : and behold, 
There was music that played itself out in aeolian notes ; 
Then was heard, as a far-away bell at long intervals tolled, 

That murmurs and floats, 
And presently dieth, forgotten of forest and wold, 
And comes in all passion again, and a tremblement soft, 

That maketh the listener full oft 
10 



2i8 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

To whisper, " Ah ! would I might hear it for ever and aye, 
When I toil in the heat of the day, 
When I walk in the cold." 

I opened the door of my heart. And behold, 
There was music within, and a song, 

But while I was hearkening, lo, blackness without, thick 
and strong, 

Came up and came over, and all that sweet fluting was 
drowned, 
I could hear it no more ; 

For the welkin was moaning, the waters were stirred on 
the shore, 
And trees in the dark all around 

Were shaken. It thundered. " Hark, hark ! there is 
thunder to-night ! 

The sullen long wave rears her head, and comes down 
with a will ; 

The awful white tongues are let loose, and the stars are 
all dead ; — 

There is thunder ! it thunders ! and ladders of light 
Run up. There is thunder ! " I said, 

" Loud thunder ! it thunders ! and up in the dark over- 
head, 

A down-pouring cloud, (there is thunder !) a down-pour- 
ing cloud 

Hails out her fierce message, and quivers the deep in 
its bed, 

And cowers the earth held at bay ; and they mutter aloud, 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 219 

And pause with an ominous tremble, till, great in their 



The heavens and earth come together, and meet with a 

crash ; 
And the fight is so fell as if Time had come down with 
the flash, 
And the story of life was all read, 
And the Giver had turned the last page. 

" Now their bar the pent water-floods lash, 
And the forest trees give out their language austere with 
great age ; 
And there flieth o'er moor and o'er hill, 
And there heaveth at intervals wide, 
The long sob of nature's great passion as loath to subside, 
Until quiet drop down on the tide, 
And mad Echo had moaned herself still." 



Lo ! or ever I was 'ware, 

In the silence of the air, 

Through my heart's wide-open door, 

Music floated forth once more, 

Floated to the world's dark rim, 

And looked over with a hymn ; 

Then came home with flutings fine, 

And discoursed in tones divine 

Of a certain grief of mine ; 

And went downward and went in, 



220 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Glimpses of my soul to win, 
And discovered such a deep 
That I could not choose but weep, 
For it lay, a land-locked sea, 
Fathomless and dim to me. 

O, the song ! it came and went, 
Went and came. 

I have not learned 
Half the lore whereto it yearned, 
Half the magic that it meant. 
Water booming in a cave ; 
Or the swell of some long wave, 
Setting in from unrevealed 
Countries ; or a foreign tongue, 
Sweetly talked and deftly sung, 
While the meaning is half sealed ; 
May be like it. You have heard 
Also ; — can you find a word 
For the naming of such song ? 
No ; a name would do it wrong. 
You have heard it in the night, 
In the dropping rain's despite, 
In the midnight darkness deep, 
When the children were asleep, 
And the wife, — no, let that be ; 
She asleep ! She knows right well 
What the song to you and me, 
While we breathe, can never tell ; 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 2 2I 

She hath heard its faultless flow, 
Where the roots of music grow. 



While I listened, like young birds, 
Hints were fluttering ; almost words, — 
Leaned and leaned, and nearer came; — 
Everything had changed its name. 



Sorrow was a ship, I found, 

Wrecked with them that in her are, 

On an island richer far 

Than the port where they were bound. 

Fear was but the awful boom 

Of the old great bell of doom, 

Tolling, far from earthly air, 

For all worlds to go to prayer. 

Pain, that to us mortal clings, 

But the pushing of our wings, 

That we have no use for yet, 

And the uprooting of our feet 

From the soil where they are set, 

And the land we reckon sweet. 

Love in growth, the grand deceit 

Whereby men the perfect greet ; 

Love in wane, the blessing sent 

To be (howsoe'er it went) 

Never more with earth content. 



222 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

O, full sweet, and O, full high, 

Ran that music up the sky ; 

But I cannot sing it you, 

More than I can make you view, 

With my paintings labial, 

Sitting up in awful row, 

White old men majestical, 

Mountains, in their gowns of snow, 

Ghosts of kings ; as my two eyes, 

Looking over speckled skies, 

See them now. About their knees, 

Half in haze, there stands at ease 

A great army of green hills, 

Some bareheaded; and, behold, 

Small green mosses creep on some. 

Those be mighty forests old ; 

And white avalanches come 

Through yon rents, where now distils 

Sheeny silver, pouring down 

To a tune of old renown, 

Cutting narrow pathways through 

Gentian belts of airy blue, 

To a zone where starwort blows, 

And lorn* reaches of the rose. 



So, that haze all left behind, 
Down the chestnut forests wind, 
Past yon jagged spires, where yet 



CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Foot of man was never set ; 
Past a castle yawning wide, 
With a great breach in its side, 
To a nest-like valley, where, 
Like a sparrow's egg in hue, 
Lie two lakes, and teach the true 
Color of the sea-maid's hair. 



What beside ? The world beside ! 
Drawing down and down, to greet 
Cottage clusters at our feet, — 
Every scent of summer tide, — 
Flowery pastures all aglow 
(Men and women mowing go 
Up and down them) ; also soft 
Floating of the film aloft, 
Fluttering of the leaves alow. 
Is this told ? It is not told. 
Where 's the danger ? where 's the cold 
Slippery danger up the steep ? 
Where yon shadow fallen asleep ? 
Chirping bird and tumbling spray, 
Light, work, laughter, scent of hay, 
Peace, and echo, where are they ? 



Ah, they sleep, sleep all untold ; 
Memory must their grace enfold 



221 



224 CONTRASTED SONGS. 

Silently ; and that high song 
Of the heart, it doth belong 
To the hearers. Not a whit, 
Though a chief musician heard, 
Could he make a tune for it. 



Though a lute full deftly strung, 
And the sweetest bird e'er sung, 
Could have tried it, — 0, the lute 
For that wondrous song were mute, 
And the bird would do her part, 
Falter, fail, and break her heart, — 
Break her heart, and furl her wings, 
On the unexpressive strings. 




GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

( On the Advantages of the Poetical Temperament.) 

AN IMPERFECT FABLE WITH A DOUBTFUL MORAL. 

HAPPY Gladys ! I rejoice with her, 
For Gladys saw the island. 

It was thus : 
They gave a day for pleasure in the school 
Where Gladys taught ; and all the other girls 
"Were taken out, to picnic in a wood. 
But it was said, " We think it were not well 
That little Gladys should acquire a taste 
For pleasure, going about, and needless change. 
It would not suit her station : discontent 
Might come of it ; and all her duties now 
She does so pleasantly, that we were best 
To keep her humble." So they said to her^ 
" Gladys, we shall not want you, all to-day. 
Look, you are free ; you need not sit at work : 
No, you may take a long and pleasant walk 
Over the sea-cliff, or upon the beach 
Among the visitors." 

Then Gladys blushed 

10* -6 



226 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

For joy, and thanked them. What ! a holiday, 
A whole one, for herself ! How good, how kind ! 
With that, the marshalled carriages drove off; 
And Gladys, sobered with her weight of joy, 
Stole out beyond the groups upon the beach — 
The children with their wooden spades, the band 
That played for lovers, and the sunny stir 
Of cheerful life and leisure — to the rocks, 
For these she wanted most, and there was time 
To mark them ; how like ruined organs prone 
They lay, or leaned their giant fluted pipes, 
And let the great white-crested reckless wave 
Beat out their booming melody. 

The sea 
Was filled with light ; in clear blue caverns curled 
The breakers, and they ran, and seemed to romp, 
As playing at some rough and dangerous game, 
While all the nearer waves rushed in to help, 
And all the farther heaved their heads to peep, 
And tossed the fishing boats. Then Gladys laughed, 
And said, " O, happy tide, to be so lost 
In sunshine, that one dare not look at it ; 
And lucky cliffs, to be so brown and warm ; 
And yet how lucky are the shadows, too, 
That lurk beneath their ledges. It is strange, 
That in remembrance though I lay them up, 
They are forever, when I come to them, 
Better than I had thought. O, something yet 
I had forgotten. Oft I say, ' At least 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 2 2J 

This picture is imprinted; thus and thus, 
The sharpened serried jags run up, run out, 
Layer on layer.' And I look — up — up — 
High, higher up again, till far aloft 
They cut into, their ether, — brown, and clear, 
And perfect. And I, saying, ' This is mine, 
To keep,' retire ; but shortly come again, 
And they confound me with a glorious change. 
The low sun out of rain-clouds stares at them ; 
They redden, and their edges drip with — what ? 
I know not, but 't is red. It leaves no stain, 
For the next morning they stand up like ghosts 
In a sea-shroud and fifty thousand mews 
Sit there, in long white files, and chatter on, 
Like silly school-girls in their silliest mood. 

" There is the boulder where we always turn. 

O ! I have longed to pass it ; now I will. 

"What would they say? for one must slip and spring ; 

< Young ladies ! Gladys ! I am shocked. My dears, 

Decorum, if you please : turn back at once. 

Gladys, we blame you most ; you should have looked 

Before you.' Then they sigh, — how kind they are ! — 

' What will become of you, if all your life 

You look a long way off? — look anywhere, 

And everywhere, instead of at your feet, 

And where they carry you ! ' Ah, well, I know 

It is a pity," Gladys said ; " but then 

"We cannot all be wise : happy for me, 



228 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

That other people are. 

"And yet I wish, — 
For sometimes very right and serious thoughts 
Come to me, — I do wish that they would come 
"When they are wanted ! — when I teach the sums 
On rainy days, and when the practising 
I count to, and the din goes on and on, 
Still the same tune and still the same mistake, 
Then I am wise enough : sometimes I feel 
Quite old. I think that it will last, and say, 
' Now my reflections do me credit ! now 
I am a woman ! ' and I wish they knew 
How serious all my duties look to me. 
And how, my heart hushed down and shaded lies, 
Just like the sea when low, convenient clouds, 
Come over, and drink all its sparkles up. 
But does it last ? Perhaps, that very day, 
The front door opens : out we walk in pairs ; 
And I am so delighted with this world, 
That suddenly has grown, being new washed, 
To such a smiling, clean, and thankful world, 
And with a tender face shining through tears, 
Looks up into the sometime lowering sky, 
That has been angry, but is reconciled, 
And just forgiving her, that I, — that I, — 
O, I forget myself: what matters how ! 
And then I hear (but always kindly said) 
Some words that pain me so, — but just, but true: 
' For if your place in this establishment 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Be but subordinate, and if your birth 
Be lowly, it the more behooves, — well, well, 
No more. We see that you are sorry.' Yes ! 
I am always sorry then ; but now, — - 0, now, 
Here is a bight more beautiful than all." 



" And did they scold her, then, my pretty one ? 
And did she want to be as wise as they, 
To bear a bucklered heart and priggish mind ? 
Ay, you may crow ; she did ! but no, no, no, 
The night-time will not let her, all the stars 
Say nay to that, — the old sea laughs at her. 
Why, Gladys is a child ; she has not skill 
To shut herself within her own small cell, 
And build the door up, and to say, ' Poor me ! 
I am a prisoner ' ; then to take hewn stones, 
And, having built the windows up, to say, 
i O, it is dark ! there is no sunshine here ; 
There never has been.' " 

Strange ! how very strange ! 
A woman passing Gladys with a babe, 
To whom she spoke these words, and only looked 
Upon the babe, who crowed and pulled her curls, 
And never looked at Gladys, never once. 
" A simple child," she added, and went by, 
" To want to change her greater for their less ; 
But Gladys shall not do it, no, not she ; 
We love her — don't we ? — far too well for that." 



229 



230 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Then Gladys, flashed with shame and keen surprise, 

" How could she be so near, and I not know ? 

And have I spoken out my thought aloud ? 

I must have done, forgetting. It is well 

She walks so fast, for I am hungry now, 

And here is water cantering down the cliff, 

And here a shell to catch it with, and here 

The round plump buns they gave me, and the fruit. 

Now she is gone behind the rock. O, rare 

To be alone ! " So Gladys sat her down, 

Unpacked her little basket, ate and drank, 

Then pushed her hands into the warm dry sand, 

And thought the earth was happy, and she too 

Was going round with it in happiness, 

That holiday. " What was it that she said ? " 

Quoth Gladys, cogitating ; " they were kind, 

The words that woman spoke. She does not know ! 

' Her greater for their less/ — it makes me laugh, — 

But yet," sighed Gladys, " though it must be good 

To look and to admire, one should not wish 

To steal their virtues, and to put them on, 

Like feathers from another wing ; beside, 

That calm, and that grave consciousness of worth, 

When all is said, would little suit with me, 

Who am not worthy. When our thoughts are born, 

Though they be good and humble, one should mind 

How they are reared, or some will go astray 

And shame their mother. Cain and Abel both 

Were only once removed from innocence. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Why did I envy them ? That was not good ; 
Yet it began with my humility." 

But as she spake, lo, Gladys raised her eyes, 

And right before her, on the horizon's edge, 

Behold, an island ! First, she looked away 

Along the solid rocks and steadfast shore, 

For she was all amazed, believing not, 

And then she looked again, and there again 

Behold, an island ! And the tide had turned, 

The milky sea had got a purple rim, 

And from the rim that mountain island rose, 

Purple, with two high peaks, the northern peak 

The higher, and with fell and precipice, 

It ran down steeply to the water's brink ; 

But all the southern line was long and soft, 

Broken with tender curves, and, as she thought, 

Covered with forest or with sward. But, look ! 

The sun was on the island ; and he showed 

-On either peak a dazzling cap of snow. 

Then Gladys held her breath ; she said, " Indeed, 

Indeed it is an island : how is this, 

I never saw it till this fortunate 

Rare holiday ? " And while she strained her eyes, 

She thought that it began to fade ; but not 

To change as clouds do, only to withdraw 

And melt into its azure ; and at last, 

Little by little, from her hungry heart, 

That longed to draw things marvellous to itself, 



231 



232 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

And yearned towards the riches and the great 

Abundance of the beauty God hath made, 

It passed away. Tears started in her eyes, 

And when they dropt, the mountain isle was gone ; 

The careless sea had quite forgotten it, 

And all was even as it had been before. 

And Gladys wept, but there was luxury 

In her self-pity, while she softly sobbed, 

" O, what a little while ! I am afraid 

I shall forget that pusple mountain isle, 

The lovely hollows atwcen her snow-clad peaks, 

The grace of her upheaval where she lay 

Well up against the open. 0, my heart, 

Now I remember how this holiday 

Will soon be done, and now my life goes on 

Not fed ; and only in the noonday walk 

Let to look silently at what it wants, 

Without the power to wait or pause awhile, 

And understand and draw within itself 

The richness of the earth. A holiday ! 

How few I have ! I spend the silent time 

At work, while all their pupils are gone home, 

And feel myself remote. They shine apart ; 

They are great planets, I a little orb ; 

My little orbit far within their own 

Turns, and approaches not. But yet, the more 

I am alone when those I teach return ; 

For they, as planets of some other sun, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Not mine, have paths that can but meet my ring 

Once in a cycle. O, how poor I am ! 

I have not got laid up in this blank heart 

Any indulgent kisses given me 

Because I had been good, or, yet more sweet, 

Because my childhood was itself a good 

Attractive thing for kisses, tender praise, 

And comforting. An orphan-school at best 

Is a cold mother in the winter time 

('T was mostly winter when new orphans came), 

An unregarded mother in the spring. 

" Yet once a year (I did mine wrong) we went 
To gather cowslips. How we thought on it 
-Beforehand, pacing, pacing the dull street, 
To that one tree, the only one we saw 
From April, — if the cowslips were in bloom 
So early ; or if not, from opening May 
Even to September. Then there came the feast 
At Epping. If it rained that day, it rained 
For a whole year to us ; we could not think 
Of fields and hawthorn hedges, and the leaves 
Fluttering, but still it rained, and ever rained. 

" Ah, well, but I am here ; but I have seen 
The gay gorse bushes in their flowering time ; 
I know the scent of bean-fields ; I have heard 
The satisfying murmur of the main." 



233 



234 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

The woman ! She came round the rock again 

With her fair baby, and she sat her down 

By Gladys, murmuring, " Who forbade the grass 

To grow by visitations of the dew ? 

Who said in ancient time to the desert pool, 

' Thou shalt not wait for angel visitors 

To trouble thy still water ? ' Must we bide 

At home ? The lore, beloved, shall fly to us 

On a pair of sumptuous wings. Or may we breathe 

Without ? O, we shall draw to us the air 

That times and mystery feed on. This shall lay 

Unchidden hands upon the heart o' the world, 

And feel it beating. Rivers shall run on, 

Full of sweet language as a lover's mouth, 

Delivering of a tune to make her youth 

More beautiful than wheat when it is green. 

" What else ? — (0, none shall envy her !) The rain 

And the wild weather will be most her own, 

And talk with her o' nights ; and if the winds 

Have seen aught wondrous, they will tell it her 

In a mouthful of strange moans, — will bring from far, 

Her ears being keen, the lowing and the mad 

Masterful tramping of the bison herds, 

Tearing down headlong with their bloodshot eyes, 

In savage rifts of hair ; the crack and creak 

Of ice-floes in the frozen sea, the cry 

Of the white bears, all in a dim blue world 

Mumbling their meals by twilight ; or the rock 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

And majesty of motion, when their heads 
Primeval trees toss in a sunny storm, 
And hail their nuts down on unweeded fields. 
No holidays," quoth she ; " drop, drop, 0, drop, 
Thou tired skylark, and go up no more ; 
You lime-trees, cover not your head with bees, 
Nor give out your good smell. She will not look ; 
No, Gladys cannot draw your sweetness in, 
For lack of holidays." So Gladys thought, 
" A most strange woman, and she talks of me." 
With that a girl ran up ; " Mother," she said, 
" Come out of this brown bight, I pray you now, 
It smells of fairies." Gladys thereon thought, 
" The mother will not speak to me, perhaps 
The daughter may," and asked her courteously, 
" What do the fairies smell of ? " But the girl 
With peevish pout replied, " You know, you know." 
" Not I," said Gladys ; then she answered her, 
" Something like buttercups. But, mother, come, 
And whisper up a porpoise from the foam, 
Because I want to ride." 

Full slowly, then, 
The mother rose, and ever kept her eyes 
Upon her little child. " You freakish maid," 
Said she, " now mark me, if I call you one, 
You shall not scold nor make him take you far." 

" I only want, — you know I only want," 
The girl replied, " to go and play awhile 



235 



236 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Upon the sand by Lagos." Then she turned 
And muttered low, " Mother, is this the girl 
Who saw the island ? " But the mother frowned. 
" When may she go to it ? " the daughter asked. 
And Gladys, following them, gave all her mind 
To hear the answer. " When she wills to go ; 
For yonder comes to shore the ferry boat." 
Then Gladys turned to look, and even so 
It was ; a ferry boat, and far away 
Reared in the offing, lo, the purple peaks 
Of her loved island. 

Then she raised her arms, 
And ran toward the boat, crying out, " O rare, 
The island ! fair befall the island ; let 
Me reach the island." And she sprang on board, 
And after her stepped in the freakish maid 
And the fair mother, brooding o'er her child ; 
And this one took the helm, and that let go 
The sail, and off they flew, and furrowed up 
A flaky hill before, and left behind 
A sobbing snake-like tail of creamy foam ; 
And dancing hither, thither, sometimes shot 
Toward the island ; then, when Gladys looked, 
Were leaving it to leeward. And the maid 
Whistled a wind to come and rock the craft, 
And would be leaning down her head to mew 
At cat-fish, then lift out into her lap 
And dandle baby-seals, which, having kissed, 
She flung to their sleek mothers, till her own 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



237 



Rebuked her in good English, after cried, 

" Luff, luff, we shall be swamped." " I will not luff," 

Sobbed the fair mischief; "you are cross to me." 

" For shame ! " the mother shrieked ; " luff, luff, my 

dear ; 
Kiss and be friends, and thou shalt have the fish 
With the curly tail to ride on." So she did, 
And presently a dolphin bouncing up, 
She sprang upon his slippery back, — " Farewell," 
She laughed, was off, and all the sea grew calm. 

Then Gladys was much happier, and was 'ware 

In the smooth weather that this woman talked 

Like one in sleep, and murmured certain thoughts 

Which seemed to be like echoes of her own. 

She nodded, " Yes, the girl is going now 

To her own island. Gladys poor ? Not she ! 

Who thinks so ? Once I met a man in white, 

Who said to me, ' The thing that might have been 

Is called, and questioned why it hath not been ; 

And can it give good reason, it is set 

Beside the actual, and reckoned in 

To fill the empty gaps of life.' Ah, so 

The possible stands by us ever fresh, 

Fairer than aught which any life hath owned, 

And makes divine amends. Now this was set 

Apart from kin, and not ordained a home ; 

An equal ; — and not suffered to fence in 

A little plot of earthly good, and say, 



238 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

'T is mine ' ; but in bereavement of the part, 
0, yet to taste the whole, — to understand 
The grandeur of the story, not to feel 
Satiate with good possessed, but evermore 
A healthful hunger for the great idea, 
The beauty and the blessedness of life. 

" Lo, now, the shadow ! " quoth she, breaking off, 
" We are in the shadow." Then did Gladys turn, 
And, O, the mountain with the purple peaks 
Was close at hand. It cast a shadow out, 
And they were in it : and she saw the snow, 
And under that the rocks, and under that 
The pines, and then the pasturage ; and saw 
Numerous dips, and undulations rare, 
Running down seaward, all astir with lithe 
Long canes, and lofty feathers ; for the palms 
And spice trees of the south, nay, every growth, 
Meets in that island. 

So that woman ran 
The boat ashore, and Gladys set her foot 
Thereon. Then all at once much laughter rose ; 
Invisible folk set up exultant shouts, 
" It all belongs to Gladys " ; and she ran 
And hid herself among the nearest trees 
And panted, shedding tears. 

So she looked round, 
And saw that she was in a banyan grove, 
Full of wild peacocks, — pecking on the grass, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



239 



A flickering mass of eyes, blue, green, and gold, 

Or reaching out their jewelled necks, where high 

They sat in rows along the boughs. No tree 

Cumbered with creepers let the sunshine through, 

But it was caught in scarlet cups, and poured 

From these on amber tufts of bloom, and dropped 

Lower on azure stars. The air was still, 

As if awaiting somewhat, or asleep, 

And Gladys was the only thing that moved, 

Excepting, — no, they were not birds, — what then ? 

Glorified rainbows with a living soul ? 

While they passed through a sunbeam they were seen, 

Not otherwhere, but they were present yet 

In shade. They were at work, pomegranate fruit 

That lay about removing, — purple grapes, 

That clustered in the path, clearing aside. 

Through a small spot of light would pass and go, 

The glorious happy mouth and two fair eyes 

Of somewhat that made rustlings where it went ; 

But when a beam would strike the ground sheer down, 

Behold them ! they had wings, and they would pass 

One after other with the sheeny fans, 

Bearing them slowly, that their hues were seen, 

Tender as russet crimson dropt on snows, 

Or where they turned flashing with gold and dashed 

With purple glooms. And they had feet, but these 

Did barely touch the ground. And they took heed 

Not to disturb the waiting quietness ; 

Nor rouse up fawns, that slept beside their dams ; 



240 



GLADYS AND TIER ISLAND. 



Nor the fair leopard, with her sleek paws laid 

Across her little drowsy cubs ; nor swans, 

That, floating, slept upon a glassy pool ; 

Nor rosy cranes, all slumbering in the reeds, 

With heads beneath their wings. For this, you know, 

Was Eden. She was passing through the trees 

That made a ring about it, and she caught 

A glimpse of glades beyond. All she had seen 

Was nothing to them ; but words are not made 

To tell that tale. No wind was let to blow, 

And all the doves were bidden to hold their peace. 

Why ? One was working in a valley near, 

And none might look that way. It was understood 

That He had nearly ended that His work ; 

For two shapes met, and one to other spake, 

Accosting him with, " Prince, what worketh He ? " 

Who whispered, " Lo ! He fashioneth red clay." 

And all at once a little trembling stir 

Was felt in the earth, and every creature woke, 

And laid its head down, listening. It was known 

Then that the work was done ; the new-made king 

Had risen, and set his feet upon his realm, 

And it acknowledged him. 

But in her path 
Came some one that withstood her, and he said, 
" What doest thou here ? " Then she did turn and flee, 
Among those colored spirits, through the grove, 
Trembling for haste ; it was not well with her 
Till she came forth of those thick banyan-trees, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

And set her feet upon the common grass, 
And felt the common wind. 

Yet once beyond. 
She could not choose but cast a backward glance. 
The lovely matted growth stood like a wall, 
And means of entering were not evident, — 
The gap had closed. But Gladys laughed for joy ; 
She said, " Remoteness and a multitude 
Of years are counted nothing here. Behold, 
To-day I have been in Eden. 0, it blooms 
In my own island." 

And she wandered on, 
Thinking, until she reached a place of palms, 
And all the earth was sandy where she walked, — 
Sandy and dry, — strewed with papyrus leaves, 
Old idols, rings and pottery, painted lids 
Of mummies (for perhaps is was the way 
That leads to dead old Egypt), and withal 
Excellent sunshine cut out sharp and clear 
The hot prone pillars, and the carven plinths, — 
Stone lotus cups, with petals dipped in sand, 
And wicked gods, and sphinxes bland, who sat 
And smiled upon the ruin. O how still ! 
Hot, blank, illuminated with the clear 
Stare of an unveiled sky. The dry stiff leaves 
Of palm-trees never rustled, and the soul 
Of that dead ancientry was itself dead. 
She was above her ankles in the sand, 
When she beheld a rocky road, and, lo ! 

11 p 



241 



242 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



It bare in it the ruts of chariot wheels, 
Which erst had carried to their pagan prayers 
The brown old Pharaohs ; for the ruts led on 
To a great cliff, that either was a cliff 
Or some dread shrine in ruins, — partly reared 
In front of that same cliff, and partly hewn 
Or excavate within its heart. Great heaps 
Of sand and stones on either side there lay ; 
And, as the girl drew on, rose out from each, 
As from a ghostly kennel, gods unblest, 
Dog-headed, and behind them winged things 
Like angels ; and this carven multitude 
Hedged in, to right and left, the rocky road. 
At last, the cliff, — and in the cliff a door 
Yawning : and she looked in, as down the throat 
Of some stupendous giant, and beheld 
No floor, but wide, worn, nights of steps, that led 
Into a dimness. When the eyes could bear 
That change to gloom, she saw flight after flight, 
Flight after flight, the worn long stair go down, 
Smooth with the feet of nations dead and gone. 
So she did enter ; also she went down 
Till it was dark, and yet again went down, 
Till, gazing upward at that yawniug door, 
It seemed no larger, in its height remote, 
Than a pin's head. But while, irresolute, 
She doubted of the end, yet farther down 
A slender ray of lamplight fell away 
Along the stair, as from a door ajar : 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

To this again she felt her way, and stepped 
Adown the hollow stair, and reached the light ; 
But fear fell on her, fear ; and she forbore 
Entrance, and listened. Ay ! 't was even so, — 
A sigh ; the breathing as of one who slept 
And was disturbed. So she drew back awhile, 
And trembled ; then her doubting hand she laid 
Against the door, and pushed it ; but the light 
Waned, faded, sank ; and as she came within — 
Hark, hark ! A spirit was it, and asleep ? 
A spirit doth not breathe like clay. There hung 
A cresset from the roof, and thence appeared 
A flickering speck of light, and disappeared ; 
Then dropped along the floor its elfish flakes, 
That fell on some one resting, in the gloom, — 
Somewhat, a spectral shadow, then a shape 
That loomed. It was a heifer, ay, and white, 
Breathing and languid through prolonged repose. 



Was it a heifer ? all the marble floor 
Was milk-white also, and the cresset paled, 
And straight their whiteness grew confused and mixed. 

But when the cresset, taking heart, bloomed out, — 
The whiteness, — and asleep again ! but now 
It was a woman, robed, and with a face 
Lovely and dim. And Gladys while she gazed 
Murmured, " O terrible ! I am afraid 
To breathe among these intermittent lives, 



243 



244 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



That fluctuate in mystic solitude, 

And change and fade. Lo ! where the goddess sits 

Dreaming on her dim throne ; a crescent moon 

She wears upon her forehead. Ah ! her frown 

Is mournful, and her slumber is not sweet. 

"What dost thou hold, Isis, to thy cold breast ? 

A baby god with finger on his lips, 

Asleep, and dreaming of departed sway ? 

Thy son. Hush, hush ; he knoweth all the lore 

And sorcery of old Egypt ; but his mouth 

He shuts ; the secret shall be lost with him, 

He will not tell." 

The woman coming down ! 
" Child, what art doing here ? " the woman said ; 
" What wilt thou of Dame Isis and her bairn ? " 
(Ay, ay, we see thee breathing in thy shroud, — 
Thy pretty shroud, all frilled and furbelow ed.) 
The air is dim with dust of spiced bones. 
I mark a crypt down there. Tier upon tier 
Of painted coffers fills it. What if we, 
Passing, should slip, and crash into their midst, — 
Break the frail ancientry, and smothered lie, 
Tumbled among the ribs of queens and kings, 
And all the gear they took to bed with them ! 
Horrible ! Let us hence. 

And Gladys said, 
" O, they are rough to mount, those stairs " ; but she 
Took her and laughed, and up the mighty flight 
Shot like a meteor with her. " There," said she ; 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

" The light is sweet when one has smelled of graves, 
Down in unholy heathen gloom ; farewell." 
She pointed to a gateway, strong and high, 
Reared of hewn stones ; but, look ! in lieu of gate, 
There was a glittering cobweb drawn across, 
# And on the lintel there were writ these words : 
" Ho, every one that cometh, I divide 
"What hath been from what might be, and the line 
Hangeth before thee as a spider's web ; 
Yet, wouldst thou enter thou must break the line, 
Or else forbear the hill." 

The maiden said, 
" So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passed 
Among some oak-trees on the farther side, 
And waded through the bracken round their bolls, 
Until she saw the open, and drew on 
Toward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixed 
With pines and heathery places wild and fresh. 
Here she put up a creature, that ran on 
Before her, crying, " Tint, tint, tint," and turned, 
Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes, 
Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott, 
The wizard that wonned somewhere underground, 
With other talk enough to make one fear 
To walk in lonely places. After passed 
A man-at-arms, William of Deloraine ; 
He shook his head, " An' if I list to tell," 
Quoth he, " I know, but how it matters not " ; 
Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clap 



245 



246 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Of thunder, and a shape in Amice gray, 

But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, " Tint, 

Tint, tint." " There shall be wild work some day soon," 

Quoth he, " thou limb of darkness : he will come, 

Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp, 

And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie." 

Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran, 

And got away, towards a grassy down, 

Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boy 

To tend them. 'T was the boy who wears that herb 

Called heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sang 

So sweetly to his flock, that she stole on 

Nearer to listen. " Content, Content, 

Give me," sang he, " thy tender company. 

I feed my flock among the myrtles ; all 

My lambs are twins, and they have laid them down 

Along the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love, 

From the other side the river, where their harps 

Thou hast been helping them to tune. O come, 

And pitch thy tent by mine ; let me behold 

Thy mouth, — that even in slumber talks of peace, — 

Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance." 

And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass, 
Till she had rested ; then did ask the boy, 
For it was afternoon, and she was fain 
To reach the shore, " Which is the path, I pray, 
That leads one to the water ? " But he said, 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 247 

" Dear lass, I only know the narrow way, 
The path that leads one to the golden gate 
Across the river." So she wandered on ; 
And presently her feet grew cool, the grass 
Standing so high, and thyme being thick and soft. 
The air was full of voices, and the scent 
Of mountain blossom loaded all its wafts ; 
For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount, 
And reared in such a sort that it looked down 
Into the deepest valleys, darkest glades, 
And richest plains o' the island. It was set 
Midway between the snows majestical 
And a wide level, such as men would choose 
For growing wheat ; and some one said to her, 
" It is the hill Parnassus." So she walked 
Yet on its lower slope, and she could hear 
The calling of an unseen multitude 
To some upon the mountain, " Give us more " ; 
And others said, " We are tired of this old world : 
Make it look new again." Then there were some 
"Who answered lovingly — (the dead yet speak 
From that high mountain, as the living do) ; 
But others sang desponding, " We have kept 
The vision for a chosen few : we love 
Fit audience better than a rough huzza 
From the unreasoning crowd." 

Then words came up : 
" There was a time, you poets, was a time 
When all the poetry was ours, and made 



I 
248 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

By some who climbed the mountain from our midst. 
We loved it then, we sang it in our streets. 
O, it grows obsolete ! Be you as they : 
Our heroes die and drop away from us ; 
Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing, 
Fair copies wasted to the hungering world. 
Save them. We fall so low for lack of them, 
That many of us think scorn of honest trade, 
And take no pride in our own shops ; who care 
Only to quit a calling, will not make 
The calling what it might be ; who despise 
Their work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the work 
Dull, and degrade them." 

Then did Gladys smile : 
" Heroes ! " quoth she ; " yet, now I think on it, 
There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh, 
Certes, a hero ready-made. Methinks 
I see him burnishing of golden gear, 
Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low, 
' London is thirsty' — (then he weighs a chain) : 
' 'T is an ill thing, my masters. I would give 
The worth of this, and many such as this, 
To bring it water.' 

" Ay, and after him 
There came up Guy of London, lettered son 
0' the honest lighterman. I '11 think on him, 
Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves, 
After his shop was closed : a still, grave man, 
With melancholy eyes. ' While these are hale,' 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



249 



He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowd 

Cheerily working ; where the river marge 

Is blocked with ships and boats ; and all the wharves 

Swarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise, — 

' While these are hale, 't is well, 't is very well. 

But, O good Lord,' saith he, ' when these are sick, — 

I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanship 

Of Thine is counted for a cumbrance then. 

Ay, ay, my hearties ! many a man of you, 

Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away, 

And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid, 

Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.' 

Well, we have heard the rest. 

" Ah, next I think 
Upon the merchant captain, stout of heart 
To dare and to endure. ' Eobert,' saith he, 
(The navigator Knox to his manful son,) 
* I sit a captive from the ship detained ; 
This heathenry doth let thee visit her. 
Eemember, son, if thou, alas ! shouldst fail 
To ransom thy poor father, they are free 
As yet, the mariners ; have wives at home, 
As I have ; ay, and liberty is sweet 
To all men. For the ship, she is not ours, 
Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mate 
This my command, to leave me, and set sail. 
As for thyself — ' ' Good father,' saith the son ; 
' I will not, father, ask your blessing now, 
Because, for fair, or else for evil, fate 
11* 



250 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



We two shall meet again.'' And so they did. 

The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon, 

And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree, 

Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed, — 

The son returned to share his father's celL 

" O, there are many such. Would I had wit 

Their worth to sing ! " With that, she turned her feec. 

" I am tired now," said Gladys, " of their talk 

Around this hill Parnassus.'' And, behold, 

A piteous sight — an old, blind, graybeard king 

Led by a fool with bells. Now this was loved 

Of the crowd below the hill ; and when he called 

For his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age, 

And plained on his unkind daughters, they were known 

To say, that if the best of gold and gear 

Could have bought him back his kingdom, and made 

kind 
The hard hearts which had broken his erewhile, 
They would have gladly paid it from their store 
Many times over. What is done is done, 
No help. The ruined majesty passed on. 
And look you ! one who met her as she walked 
Showed her a mountain nymph lovely as light. 
Her name (Enone ; and she mourned and mourned, 
" O Mother Ida," and she could not cease, 
No, nor be comforted. 

And after this, 
Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman cap 



251 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

And kirtle, an Arcadian villager, 
Who said, " I pray you, have you chanced to meet 
One Gabriel ? " and she sighed ; but Gladys took 
And kissed her hand : she could not answer her, 
Because she guessed the end. 

With that it drew 
To evening ; and as Gladys wandered on 
In the calm weather, she beheld the wave, 
And she ran down to set her feet again 
On the sea margin, which was covered thick 
With white shell-skeletons. The sky was red 
As wine. The water played among bare ribs 
Of many wrecks, that lay half buried there 
In the sand. She saw a cave, and moved thereto 
To ask her way, and one so innocent 
Came out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute, 
She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes, 
For in them beamed the untaught ecstasy 
Of childhood, that lives on though youth be come, 
And love just born. 



She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince, 

All blushing. She told Gladys many things 

That are not in the story, — things, in sooth, 

That Prosper© her father knew. But now 

'T was evening, and the sun drooped ; purple stripes 

In the sea were copied from some clouds that lay 

Out in the west. And lo ! the boat, and more, 

The freakish thing to take fair Gladys home 



252 GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

She mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm : 

Peace, peace ! " she said ; " be good : you shall not steer, 

For I am your liege lady." Then she sang 

The sweetest songs she knew all the way home. 

So Gladys set her feet upon the sand ; 
While in the sunset glory died away 
The peaks of that blest island. 

" Fare you well. 
My country, my own kingdom," then she said, 
" Till I go visit you again, farewell." 

She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt, — 

The carriages were coming. Hastening up, 

She was in time to meet them at the door, 

And lead the sleepy little ones within ; 

And some were cross and shivered, and her dames 

Were weary and right hard to please ; but she 

Felt like a beggar suddenly endowed 

With a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold. 

" For, come what will," she said, " I had to-day. 

There is an island." 

The Moral. 

What is the moral ? Let us think awhile, 
Taking the editorial We to help, 
It sounds respectable. 

The moral ; yes. 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 253 

We always read, when any fable ends, 
" Hence we may learn." A moral must be found. 
What do you think of this ? " Hence we may learn 
That dolphins swim about the coast of Wales, 
And Admiralty maps should now be drawn 
By teacher-girls, because their sight is keen, 
And they can spy out islands." Will that do ? 
No, that is far too plain, — too evident. 

Perhaps a general moralizing vein — 
(We know we have a happy knack that way. 
We have observed, moreover, that young men 
Are fond of good advice, and so are girls ; 
Especially of that meandering kind, 
Which winding on so sweetly, treats of all 
They ought to be and do and think and wear, 
As one may say, from creeds to comforters. 
Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves, 
So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein ; 
That is the thing ; but how to manage it ? 
" Hence we may learn" if we be so inclined, 
That life goes best with those who take it best ; 
That wit can spin from work a golden robe 
To queen it in ; that who can paint at will 
A private picture gallery, should not cry 
For shillings that will let him in to look 
At some by others painted. Furthermore, 
Hence we may learn, you poets, — (and we count 
For poets all who ever felt that such 



254 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 



They were, and all who secretly have known 
That such they could be ; ay, moreover, all 
Who wind the roles of ideality 
About the bareness of their lives, and hang 
Comforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn, 
Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world), — 
Hence we may learn, you poets, that of all 
We should be most content. The earth is given 
To us : we reign by virtue of a sense 
"Which lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse, 
The ring of that old tune whereto she spins. 
Humanity is given to us : we reign 
By virtue of a sense, which lets us in 
To know its troubles ere they have been told, 
And take them home and lull them into rest 
With mournfullest music. Time is given to us, — - 
Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, beside 
Have seen it well, have walked this empty world 
When she went steaming, and from pulpy hills 
Have marked the spurting of their flamy crowns ? 

Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched, 
And peered between the linen curtains, blue, 
Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there, 
And, frighted, have not dared to look again ? 
But, quaint antiquity ! beheld, we thought, 
A chest that might have held the manna pot 
And Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leaned 
Over the edge of Britain, while the fleet 



GLADYS AND HER ISLAND. 

Of Csesar loomed and neared ; then, afterwards. 
We saw fair Venice looking at herself 
In the glass below her, while her Doge went forth 
In all his bravery to the wedding. 

This, 
However, counts for nothing to the grace 
We wot of in time future : — therefore add, 
And afterwards have done : " Hence we may learn" 
That though it be a grand and comely thing 
To be unhappy, — (and we think it is, 
Because so many grand and clever folk 
Have found out reasons for unhappiness, 
And talked about uncomfortable things, — 
Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness, 
The hollowness o' the world, till we at last 
Have scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear, 
Being so hollow, it should break some day, 
And let us in), — yet, since we are not grand, 
O, not at all, and as for cleverness, 
That may be or may not be, — it is w r ell 
For us to be as happy as we can ! 

Agreed ; and with a word to the nobler sex, 
As thus ; we pray you carry not your guns 
On the half-cock ; we pray you set your pride 
In its proper place, and never be ashamed 
Of any honest calling, — let us add, 
And end ; for all the rest, hold up your heads 
And mind your English. 



255 






SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



WEDLOCK. 




HE sun was streaming in : I woke, and said, 
" Where is my wife, — that has been made my 
wife 

Only this year ? " The casement stood ajar : 
I did but lift my head : The pear-tree dropped, 
The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leaves 
And blossom, under heavens of happy blue. 

My wife had wakened first, and had gone down 

Into the orchard. All the air was calm ; 

Audible humming filled it. At the roots 

Of peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps, 

Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hills 

Were tossing down their silver messengers, 

And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds, 

Gave them good answer ; all things else were mute ; 

An idle world lay listening to their talk, 

They had it to themselves. 



2 6o SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

What ails my wife ? * 
I know not if aught ails her ; though her step 
Tell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake. 
She moves atween the almond boughs, and bends 
One thick with bloom to look on it. " love ! 
A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself, 
At unaware to think thy thoughts alone : 
How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heart 
The reason. Ah ! thou art no more thine own. 
Mine, mine, love ! Tears gather 'neath my lids, — 
Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty, 
Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty, 
That yet, love, thou wouldst not have again. 
No ; all is right. But who can give, or bless, 
Or take a blessing, but there comes withal 
Some pain ? " 

She walks beside the lily bed, 
And holds apart her gown ; she would not hurt 
The leaf-enfolded buds, that have not looked 
Yet on the daylight. 0, thy locks are brown, — 
Fairest of colors ! — and a darker brown 
The beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes. 
A bloom as of blush roses covers her 
Forehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with 

her, 
And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul ! 
To think that thou art mine ! 

My wife came in, 
And moved into the chamber. As for me, 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 26 1 

I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears, 
And feigned to be asleep. 



The racing river leaped, and sang 
Full blithely in the perfect weather, 

All round the mountain echoes rang, 
For blue and green were glad together. 

11. 

This rained out light from every part, 

And that with songs of joy was thrilling; 

But, in the hollow of my heart, 

There ached a place that wanted filling. 

in. 

Before the road and river meet, 

And stepping-stones are wet and glisten, 

I heard a sound of laughter sweet, 
And paused to like it, and to listen. 

IV. 

I heard the chanting waters flow, 

The cushat's note, the bee's low humming, — 
Then turned the hedge, and did not know, — 

How could I ? — that my time was coming. 



262 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

v. 

A girl upon the nighest stone, 

Half doubtful of the deed, was standing, 
So far the shallow flood had flown 

Beyond the 'customed leap of landing. 



VI. 

She knew not any need of me, 
Yet me she waited all unweeting ; 

"We thought not I had crossed the sea, 
And half the sphere to give her meeting. 



VII. 

I waded out, her eyes I met, 

I wished the moment had been hours ; 
I took her in my arms, and set 

Her dainty feet among the flowers. 



VIII. 

Her fellow maids in copse and lane, 

Ah ! still, methinks, I hear them calling ; 

The wind's soft whisper in the plain, 
The cushat's coo, the water's falling. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 263 



IX. 



But now it is a year ago, 

But now possession crowns endeavor ; 
I took her in my heart, to grow 

And fill the hollow place forever. 



REGKET. 



OTHAT word Regret ! 
There have been nights and morns when we have 
sighed, 
" Let us alone, Regret ! We are content 
To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep 
For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes ; 
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, 
But plaineth on the bed that it is hard. 

We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
And over : sorrows humanize our race ; 
Tears are the showers that fertilize this world ; 
And memory of things precious keepeth warm 
The heart that once did hold them. 

They are poor 
That have lost nothing ; they are poorer far 
Who, losing, have forgotten ; they most poor 
Of all, who lose and wish they might forget. 



264 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

For life is one, and in its warp and woof 
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, 
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet 
Where there are sombre colors. It is true 
That we have wept. But ! this thread of gold, 
We would not have it tarnish ; let us turn 
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, 
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know 
That memory is possession. 



When I remember something which I had, 
But which is gone, and I must do without, 

I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, 
Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout ; 

It makes me sigh to think on it, — but yet 

My days will not be better days, should I forget. 



11. 

When I remember something promised me, 
But which I never had, nor can have now, 

Because the promiser we no more see 

In countries that accord with mortal vow ; 

When I remember this, I mourn, — but yet 

My happier days are not the days when I forget. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 2 6$ 



LAMENTATION. 

I READ upon that book, 
Which down the golden gulf doth let us look 
On the sweet days of pastoral majesty ; 
I read upon that book 
How, when the Shepherd Prince did flee 
(Red Esau's twin), he desolate took 
The stone for a pillow : then he fell on sleep. 
And lo ! there was a ladder. Lo ! there hung 
A ladder from the star-place, and it clung 
To the earth : it tied her so to heaven ; and ! 

There fluttered wings ; 
Then were ascending and descending things 
That stepped to him where he lay low ; 
Then up the ladder would a-drifting go 
(This feathered brood of heaven), and show 
Small as white flakes in winter that are blown 
Together, underneath the great white throne. 

When I had shut the book, I said, 
" Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bed 

Are not like Jacob's dream ; 
Yet I have got it in my life ; yes, I, 
And many more : it doth not us beseem, 

Therefore, to sigh. 
Is there not hung a ladder in our sky ? 
12 



266 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

Yea ; and, moreover, all the way up on high 
Is thickly peopled with the prayers of men. 

We have no dream ! What then ? 
Like winged wayfarers the height they scale 
(By Him that offers them they shall prevail), — 
The prayers of men. 
But where is found a prayer for me ; 

How should I pray ? 
My heart is sick, and full of strife. 
I heard one whisper with departing breath, 
* Suffer us not, for any pains of death, 

To fall from Thee.' 
But 0, the pains of life ! the pains of life ! 

There is no comfort now, and naught to win, 
But yet, — I will begin." 



" Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say, 
For that is wasted away ; 

And much of it was cankered ere it went. 

" Preserve to me my health," I cannot say, 
For that, upon a day, 

Went after other delights to banishment. 



ii. 

What can I pray ? " Give me forgetfulness " ? 
No, I would still possess 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 2 6? 

Past away smiles, though present fronts be stern. 
" Give me again my kindred ? " Nay ; not so, 

Not idle prayers. We know 
They that have crossed the river cannot return. 



in. 

I do not pray, " Comfort me ! comfort me ! " 

For how should comfort be ? 

■ 

O, — that cooing mouth, — that little white head ! 
No ; but I pray, " If it be not too late, 

Open to me the gate, 
That I may find my babe when I am dead. 



IV. 

" Show me the path. I had forgotten Thee 

When I was happy and free, 
Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun ; 
But now I come and mourn ; O set my feet 

In the road to Thy blest seat, 
And for the rest, God, Thy will be done/' 



268 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



DOMINION. 

WHEN found the rose delight in her fair hue ? 
Color is nothing to this world ; 't is I 
That see it. Farther, I discover soul, 
That trees are nothing to their fellow trees ; 
It is but I that love their stateliness, 
And I that, comforting my heart, do sit 
At noon beneath their shadow. I will step 
On the ledges of this world, for it is mine ; 
But the other world ye wot of, shall go too ; 
I will carry it in my bosom. my world, 
That was not built with clay ! 

Consider it 
(This outer world we tread on) as a harp, — 
A gracious instrument on whose fair strings 
We learn those airs we shall be set to play 
When mortal hours are ended. Let the wings, 
Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind, 
And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yet 
Lie grovelling ? More is won than e'er was lost : 
Inherit. Let thy day be to thy night 
A teller of good tidings. Let thy praise 
Go up as birds go up that, when they wake, 
Shake off the dew and soar. 

So take Joy home, 
And make a place in thy great heart for her, 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 269 

And give her time to grow, and cherish her ; 
Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, 
When thou art working in the furrows ; ay, 
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 
It is a comely fashion to be glad, — 
Joy is the grace we say to God. 

Art tired ? 
There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned ? 
There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head, 
The lovely world, and the over- world alike, 
King with a song eterne, a happy rede, 
" Thy Father loves thee." 



Yon moored mackerel fleet 

Hangs thick as a swarm of bees, 

Or a clustering village street 
Foundationless built on the seas. 



The mariners ply their craft, 
Each set in his castle frail ; 

His care is all for the draught, 
And he dries the rain-beaten sail. 

in. 



For rain came down in the night, 
And thunder muttered full oft, 



270 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

But now the azure is bright, 
And hawks are wheeling aloft. 



IV. 

I take the land to my breast, 
In her coat with daisies fine ; 

For me are the hills in their best. 
And all that 's made is mine. 



Sing high ! " Though the red sun dip, 
There yet is a day for me ; 

Nor youth I count for a ship 
That long ago foundered at sea. 

VI. 

" Did the lost love die and depart ? 

Many times since we have met ; 
For I hold the years in my heart, 

And all that was — is yet. 

VII. 

" I grant to the king his reign ; 

Let us yield him homage due ; 
But over the lands there are twain, 

O king, I must rule as you. 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 2 ?I 

VIII. 

" I grant to the wise his meed, 

But his yoke I will not brook, 
For God taught me to read, — 

He lent me the world for a book." 



FRIENDSHIP. 



ON A SUN-PORTRAIT OF HER HUSBAND, SENT BY HIS 
W T IFE TO THEIR FRIEND. 

BEAUTIFUL eyes, — and shall I see no more 
The living thought when it would leap from them, 
And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids ? 

Here was a man familiar with fair heights 

That poets climb. Upon his peace the tears 

And troubles of our race deep inroads made, 

Yet life was sweet to him ; he kept his heart 

At home. Who saw his wife might well have thought, — 

" God loves this man. He chose a wife for him, — 

The true one ! " O sweet eyes, that seem to live, 

I know so much of you, tell me the rest ! 

Eyes full of fatherhood and tender care 

For small, young children. Is a message here 

That you would fain have sent, but had not time ? 



2/2 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



If such there be, I promise, by long love 
And perfect friendship, by all trust that comes 
Of understanding, that I will not fail, 
No, nor delay to find it. 

O, my heart 
Will often pain me as for some strange fault, — 
Some grave defect in nature, — when I think 
How I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees, 
Moved to the music of the tideless main, 
"While, with sore weeping, in an island home 
They laid that much-loved head beneath the sod, 
And I did not know. 



I stand on the bridge where last we stood 
When delicate leaves were young ; 

The children called us from yonder wood, 
While a mated blackbird sung. 

ii. 

Ah, yet you call, — in your gladness call, — 
And I hear your pattering feet ; 

It does not matter, matter at all, 
You fatherless children sweet, — 

in. 

It does not matter at all to you, 
Young hearts that pleasure besets ; 



SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 

The father sleeps, but the world is new, 
The child of his love forgets. 

IV. 

I too, it may be, before they drop, 
The leaves that flicker to-day, 

Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop, 
Shall pass from my place away : 



Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white, 

Or snow lies soft on the wold, 
Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light, 

And leave the story untold. 

VI. 

Shall I tell it there ? Ah, let that be, 
For the warm pulse beats so high ; 

To love to-day, and to breathe and see, — 
To-morrow perhaps to die, — 

VII. 

Leave it with God. But this I have known, 

That sorrow is over soon ; 
Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone, 

Forget by full of the moon. 

12* R 



273 



274 SONGS WITH PRELUDES. 



VIII. 



But if all loved, as the few can love, 
This world would seldom be well ; 

And who need wish, if he dwells above, 
For a deep, a long death knell. 



IX. 



There are four or five, who, passing this place, 
While they live will name me yet ; 

And when I am gone will think on my face, 
And feel a kind of regret. 



WINSTANLEY. 




THE APOLOGY. 

UOTH the cedar to the reeds and rushes, 
" Water-grass, you know not ivhat I do ; 

Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes. 
And — I know not you" 



Quoth the reeds and rushes, " Wind ! waken ! 

Breathe, wind, and set our answer free, 
For we have no voice, of you forsaken, 
For the cedar-tree" 

Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean, 

" Wilderness of water, lost to view, 
Naught you are to me but sounds of motion ; 
lam naught to you" 

Quoth the ocean, " Dawn ! fairest, clearest, 

Touch me with thy golden fingers bland ; 
For I have no smile till thou appearest 
For the lovely land" 



276 WINSTANLEY. 

Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory, 

"Many blame me, few have understood ; 
Ah, my folk, to you Heave a story, — 
Make its meaning good." 

Quoth the folk, " Sing, poet ! teach us, prove us ; 

Surely we shall learn the meaning then ; 
Wound us with a pain divine, move us, 
For this man of men" 



WINSTANLEY'S deed, you kindly folk, 
With it I fill my lay, 
And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, 
Let his name be what it may. 

The good ship " Snowdrop " tarried long, 

Up at the vane looked he ; 
" Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, 

" She lieth becalmed at sea." 

The lovely ladies flocked within, 

And still would each one say, 
" Good mercer, be the ships come up ? " 

But still he answered " Nay." 

Then stepped two mariners down the street, 

With looks of grief and fear : 
" Now, if Winstanley be your name, 

We bring you evil cheer ! 



WINSTANLEY. 



277 



"For the good ship ' Snowdrop ' struck, — she struck 

On the rock, — the Eddy stone, 
And down she went with threescore men, 

We two being left alone. 

" Down in the deep, with freight and crew, 

Past any help she lies, 
And never a bale has come to shore 

Of all thy merchandise." 

" For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," 

Winstanley said, and sighed, 
" For velvet coif, or costly coat, 

They fathoms deep may bide. 

" thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, 

O mariners, bold and true, 
Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, 

A-thinking of yours and you. 

" Many long days Winstanley's breast 

Shall feel a weight within, 
For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared 

And trading count but sin. 

" To him no more it shall be joy 

To pace the cheerful town, 
And see the lovely ladies gay 

Step on in velvet gown." 
13 



278 WINSTANLEY. 

The " Snowdrop " sank at Lammas tide, 

Ail under the yeasty spray ; 
On Christmas Eve the brig " Content " 1 

Was also cast away. 

He little thought o' New Year's night, 

So jolly as he sat then, 
While drank the toast and praised the roast 

The round-faced Aldermen, — 

While serving lads ran to and fro, 

Pouring the ruby wine, 
And jellies trembled on the board, 

And towering pasties fine, — 

While loud huzzas ran up the roof 
Till the lamps did rock o'er he ad, 

And holly-boughs from rafters hung 
Dropped down their berries red, — 

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, 

With every rising tide, 
How the wave washed in his sailor lads, 

And laid them side by side. 

There stepped a stranger to the board : 
" Now, stranger, who be ye ? " 

He looked to right, he looked to left, 
And " Rest you merry," quoth he ; 



WIN STANLEY. 

" For you did not see the brig go down, 

Or ever a storm had blown ; 
For you did not see the white wave rear 

At the rock, — the Eddystone. 

" She drave at the rock with sternsails set ; 

Crash went the masts in twain ; 
She staggered back with her mortal blow, 

Then leaped at it again. 

" There rose a great cry, bitter and strong, 

The misty moon looked out ! 
And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, 

And the wreck was strewed about. 

" I saw her mainsail lash the sea 

As I clung to the rock alone ; 
Then she heeled over, and down she went, 

And sank like any stone. 

" She was a fair ship, but all 's one ! 

For naught could bide the shock." 
" I will take horse," Winstanley said, 

" And see this deadly rock." 

" For never again shall bark o' mine 

Sail over the windy sea, 
Unless, by the blessing of God, for this 

Be found a remedy." 



279 



2 8o WINSTANLEY. 

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town 

All in the sleet and the snow, 
And he looked around on shore and sound 

As he stood on Plymouth Hoe. 

Till a pillar of spray rose far away, 

And shot up its stately head, 
Reared and fell over, and reared again : 

" 'T is the rock ! the rock ! " he said. 

Straight to the Mayor he took his way, 
" Good Master Mayor," quoth he, 

" I am a mercer of London town, 
And owner of vessels three, — 

" But for your rock of dark renown, 

I had five to track the main." 
"You are one of many," the old Mayor said, 

" That on the rock complain. 

" An ill rock, mercer ! your words ring right, 
Well with my thoughts they chime, 

For my two sons to the world to come 
It sent before their time," 

" Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, 
And a score of shipwrights free, 

For I think to raise a lantern tower 
On this rock o' destiny." 



WINSTANLEY. 28 1 

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed also ; 

" Ah, youth," quoth he, " is rash ; 
Sooner, young man, thou 'It root it out 

From the sea that clolh it lash. 

" Who sails too near its jagged teeth, 

He shall have evil lot ; 
For the calmest seas that tumble there 

Froth like a boiling pot. 

" And the heavier seas few look on nigh, 

But straight they lay him dead ) 
A seventy-gun-ship, sir ! — - they '11 shoot 

Higher than her mast-head. 

" 0, beacons sighted in the dark, 

They are right welcome things, 
And pitchpots flaming on the shore 

Show fair as angel wings. 

" Hast gold in hand ? then light the land, 

It 'longs to thee and me ; 
But let alone the deadly rock 

In God Almighty's sea." 

Yet said he, " Nay, — I must away, 

On the rock to set my feet ; 
My debts are paid, my will I made, 

Or ever I did thee greet. 



2 82 WIN STANLEY. 

" If I must die, then let me die 
By the rock and not elsewhere ; 

If I may live, O let me live 
To mount my lighthouse stair." 

The old Mayor looked him in the face, 
And answered, " Have thy way ; 

Thy heart is stout, as if round about 
It was braced with an iron stay ; 

" Have thy will, mercer ! choose thy men, 
Put off from the storm-rid shore ; 

God with thee be, or I shall see 
Thy face and theirs no more." 

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, 

And foam flew up the lea, 
Morning and even the drifted snow 

Fell into the dark gray sea. 

"Winstanley chose him men and gear ; 

He said, " My time I waste," 
For the seas ran seething up the shore, 

And the wrack drave on in haste. 

But twenty days he waited and more, 

Pacing the strand alone, 
Or ever he sat his manly foot 

On the rock, — the Eddystone. 



WINSTANLEY. 283 

Then he and the sea began their strife, 

And worked with power and might : 
Whatever the man reared up by day 

The sea broke down by night. 

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam. 

He sailed to shore at flow ; 
And at his side, by that same tide, 

Came bar and beam also. 

" Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, 

" Or thou wilt rue the day." 
" Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, 

" But the rock will have its way* 

" For all his looks that are so stout, 

And his speeches brave and fair, 
He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, 

But he '11 build no lighthouse there." 

In fine weather and foul weather 

The rock his arts did flout, 
Through the long days and the short days, 

Till all that year ran out. 

With fine weather and foul weather 

Another year came in ; 
" To take his wage," the workmen said, 

" We almost count a sin." 



284 WINSTANLEY. 

Now March was gone, came April in, 

And a sea-fog settled down, 
And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, 

He sailed from Plymouth town. 

With men and stores he put to sea, 

As he was wont to do ; 
They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint, — 

A ghostly craft and crew. 

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway, 
For a long eight days and more ; 

" God help our men," quoth the women then ; 
" For they bide long from shore." 

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread : 
" Where may our mariners be ? " 

But the brooding fog lay soft as down 
Over the quiet sea. 

A Scottish schooner made the port, 

The thirteenth day at e'en ; 
" As I am a man," the captain cried, 

" A strange sight I have seen : 

" And a strange sound heard, my masters all, 

At sea, in the fog and the rain, 
Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, 

Then loud, then low again. 



WINSTANLEY. 285 

" And a stately house one instant showed, 

Through a rift, on the vessel's lee ; 
What manner of creatures may be those 

That build upon the sea ? " 

Then sighed the folk, " The Lord be praised ! " 
And they flocked to the shore amain ; 

All over the Hoe that livelong night, 
Many stood out in the rain. 

It ceased, and the red sun reared his head, 

And the rolling fog did flee ; 
And, lo ! in the offing faint and far 

Winstanley's house at sea ! 

In fair weather with mirth and cheer 

The stately tower uprose ; 
In foul weather, with hunger and cold, 

They were content to close ; 

Till up the stair Winstanley went, 

To fire the wick afar ; 
And Plymouth in the silent night 

Looked out, and saw her star. 

Winstanley set his foot ashore ; 

Said he, " My work is done ; 
I hold it strong to last as long 

As aught beneath the sun. 



?S6 WINSTANLEY. 

u But if it fail, as fail it may, 

Borne down with ruin and rout, 
Another than I shall rear it high, 

And brace the girders stout. 

" A better than I shall rear it high, 

For now the way is plain, 
And tho' I were dead," Winstanley said, 

" The light would shine again. 

" Yet, were I fain still to remain, 

Watch in my tower to keep, 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep ; 

" And if it stood, why then 't were good, 

Amid their tremulous stirs, 
To count each stroke when the mad waves broke, 

For cheers of mariners. 

" But if it fell, then this were well, 

That I should with it fall ; 
Since, for my part, I have built my heart 

In the courses of its wall. 

" Ay ! I were fain, long to remain, 

Watch in my tower to keep, 
And tend my light in the stormiest night 

That ever did move the deep." 



WINS TANLEY. 287 

With that Winstanley went his way, 

And left the rock renowned, 
And summer and winter his pilot star 

Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound. 

But it fell out, fell out at last, 

That he would put to sea, 
To scan once more his lighthouse tower 

On the rock o' destiny. 

And the winds broke, and the storm broke, 

And wrecks came plunging in ; 
None in the town that night lay down 

Or sleep or rest to win. 

The great mad waves were rolling graves, 

And each flung up its dead ; 
The seething flow was white below, 

And black the sky o'erhead. 

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, — - 

Broke on the trembling town, 
And men looked south to the harbor mouth, 

The lighthouse tower was down. 

Down in the deep where he doth sleep, 

Who made it shine afar, 
And then in the night that drowned its light, 

Set, with his pilot star. 



288 



WINSTANLEY. 



Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms 

At Westminster they show ; 
The brave and the great lie there in state . 

Winstanley lieth low. 




NOTES. 



Page 1. 

This story I first wrote in prose, and it was published some years 
ago. 

Page 100. 

The name of the patriarch's wife is intended to be pronounced 
Nigh-loi-ya. 

Of the three sons of Noah, — Shem, Ham, and Japhet, — I have called 
Japhet the youngest (because he is always named last), and have sup- 
posed that, in the genealogies where he is called "Japhet the elder," 
he may have received the epithet because by that time there were 
younger Japhets. 

Page 167. 

The quivering butterflies in companies, 
That slowly crept adown the sandy marge, 
Like living crocus beds. 

This beautiful comparison is taken from "The Naturalist on the 
River Amazons." "Vast numbers of orange-colored butterflies con- 
gregated on the moist sands. They assembled in densely-packed 
masses, sometimes two or three yards in circumference, their wings 
all held in an upright position, so that the sands looked as though 
variegated with beds of crocuses." 

14 b 



290 



NOTES. 



"Gladys and Her Island." 

The woman is Imagination ; she is brooding over what she brought 
forth. 

The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of His- 
tory. 

The girl is Fancy. 

" WlNSTANLEY." 

This ballad was intended to be one of a set, and was read to the 
children in the National Schools at Sherborne, Dorsetshire, in order to 
discover whether, if the actions of a hero were simply and plainly 
narrated, English children would like to learn the verses recording 
them ; by heart, as their forefathers did. 



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